Dear John,

I’ve never really written letters to anyone before, so I was sort of surprised when you suggested we use such old fashioned methods to keep in touch. Surely you have an email address of some kind? Even my grandmother has one of those and, let me tell you this; she can barely use a toaster without setting fire to one of the curtains in her kitchen. I can’t even begin to tell you how many times we’ve had to tell her that, in the case of a fire, she’s better off calling the fire department than us but she didn’t really get it.

I guess that’s the thing about old people: you can’t really teach old dogs new tricks. And sometimes they forget basic tricks, you know? I think I’m afraid of getting old and then being one of those ladies, like my grandma and her friends, who can’t go to the bathroom alone or talks too loudly, making everyone feel embarrassed.

I remember once when I was younger, my grandma had about five of her friends over to her house in the afternoon, and when I was little, I used to go to her house everyday after school because my mom and dad both had jobs and I wasn’t old enough to stay home alone. They all got dropped off by their children and it seemed funny since a decade or so ago, the roles would probably have been reversed. My grandma asked me to make tea for all her friends but at that time I was only about twelve years old and pretty crap at domestic tasks, but I was determined not to let her down, I mean, my grandmother had known these women for almost an entire century! Surely I should have been grown up enough to serve them all a cup of tea?

I can’t remember much else about that afternoon except it was a Tuesday and the fact that the tea tray shook beneath my hands after succeeding in not spilling the scalding hot liquid on anyone’s cardigans. But I remember wishing I could be like them when I get older. I don’t mean when I hit thirty or forty, but when I’m rolling onto eighty. None of them have a clue what’s going on most of the time but they always seem very serene and peaceful, and you sort of ignore how they make their kids worry about them kicking the bucket all the time. I guess it’d be sort of nice… I think I'd feel sort of infinite.

You know what John? For the first letter I’ve ever written, this one is turning out pretty well. I suppose I’m glad you told me to write to you, and gave me your address instead of your phone number on Friday since this feels pretty therapeutic. I hope you don’t think my handwriting is too scruffy. My teachers in elementary school always used to tell me off for writing so untidily, because, apparently, all the other kids could write like proper humans and I wrote like I didn’t actually have hands. But I think it’s endearing; I think it seems like I have a story to tell… Which, I guess I do.

Everyone has stories to tell, right?

Yours sincerely,
Jane.