There have been times when, for one reason or another – our travel schedules, family issues, etc. – that I haven’t written the usual Monday letter to the kids. In 10 years I could count the total missed weeks on my two hands, and maybe a couple of toes. Sometimes if I missed a Monday then the letter was posted on Tuesday, and if Tuesday got by me there was still a Wednesday drop off at the post box. They almost always got something.
Last week, however, the decade-plus string of weekly letters was intentionally broken. Monday came and went. Nothing was mailed. The streak, such as it was, is done. I don’t feel very good about it.
That’s because I harbored residual anger that welled up and most assuredly would have spilled over in writing. That’s nothing the kids need to read about. Rest assured, what made my blood boil had nothing to do with them. In lieu of anger, a civil person might call it ‘deep-seated frustration.’ I am still worked up about things today.
It had to do with good people getting bad news. People I care about, here and elsewhere, who are good if not spectacular at what they do. And for their years, and in one case, decades, of loyal efforts? They have been summarily kicked to the curb.
Of course anger is a legitimate emotion worth sharing with Ellen and Reid. Heaven knows they’ve read about everything else. But they know at least two of these wonderful people, and anger for anger’s sake isn’t worth the effort. To be sure, I have vented before and no doubt will again, but not to the volcanic extent that would’ve erupted last week.
Already, today’s letter to my duo is out the door. Along for the trip to the post box are separate envelopes addressed to my friends on the receiving end of the kicking.