A Different Kind of December Letter
When the souls warm up, the words pop up.
I want to invite you to picture two little girls, aged 7 and 8.
It’s December, sometime back in 1996. It’s winter, freezing cold, with icy blizzards. No one dares to foresee that moment when winter will fall on her knees and surrender to the spring. For now, everyone is staying quietly under the gigantic pile of snow.
These two girls frantically write something, at the shelter of their tiny little house, tucked in warm blankets, with only a flickering light casting on their paper.
One of them is frowning, holding the pen so tight that her knuckles turn white. She scribbles one or two lines, puffs, crumples the page throwing it to the floor, and grabs another one, starting all over.
The other little girl is as serene as a candle’s warm breath of light. She’s writing as if no one is reading. Line after line, she’s filling the pages with letters that are supposed to make up words.
What are they writing, you wonder?
Maybe a letter to Santa, since it’s December and all?
Nope, you didn’t get that right.
They’re writing a letter to their grandparents in the countryside.
