A couple of days ago, I grabbed the short stack of envelopes from the mailbox–yes, the real mailbox, used by the U.S. Post Office–and brought it into the house.
As I sifted through it, finding no bills (always a nice thing), I noticed an envelope with familiar handwriting on it. It was addressed to D (older son: remember?). I looked at the return address, and saw that it was from his middle school, more specifically, his 8th grade social studies teacher. The handwriting? Was D’s.
And then it all came back to me.
I remember, four years ago, an afternoon on which he came home and, as was our daily habit, we talked about the various school happenings. He told me that the social studies assignment for that day was to write a letter to their future selves (or something like that), and that his teacher would mail it in a few years.
“Right,” I thought, “We’ll never see THAT assignment again…”
(If you can’t guess, go reread the beginning of this post.)
I called D at school and told him he received a letter from himself. He only vaguely remembered the assignment, but was excited about coming home this weekend so he could open it. I didn’t tell him that I already held it up to a bright light. (shh.) The only words I could see were, “Be nicer to J”.
This letter is going to be a hoot and a half.
If that weren’t enough, today he received ANOTHER letter from himself.
I can’t wait until he gets home tomorrow afternoon; the suspense is killing me. How about you?
*I can just picture this teacher–great guy!–with rubberbands around packets of letters from each year, with post-it notes on them, reminding him of the year in which he needs to mail them. I love that!
©2011 Suburban Scrawl