Richard Scarry

In this short month of longish days, I'm drawn to pen and paper, to the sound of thought as it crosses the page, to the intimate quiet of letters.

The other day I wrote a letter to myself, urged me to Get a grip.

Last week, I wrote a letter to my younger self, said You are good.

I write letters in my head. For days, we correspond, though you never know.

Some days I look forward to just one thing: opening the mailbox to find a version of you. I rip the envelope, holding my breath.

It's a wonder, really, how I can write from the heart, from the head, from miles away, and just a few days later, I am in your hands. There is miracle in this exchange.

"To say what letters contain is impossible," writes Anne Carson in The Beauty of the Husband. "Did you ever touch your tongue to a metal surface in winter — how it felt not to get a letter is easier to say . . . In a letter both reader and writer discover an ideal image of themselves, short blinding passages are all it takes."

It's a Month of Letters.

Thank you for stamps and envelopes. For postcards and notes. For the scribble, the scrawl, the shaky hand. For an "audience of one." Thank you for sending light when you write.

It's Thankful Thursday, a weekly pause to give thanks. What are you thankful for today? A person, a place, a thing? A story, a song, a poem? Tell me, what makes your world expand?