It happened slowly. I can remember a time when the phone ringing in our home was cause for jubilee. Kids and adults rushed to answer it. The caller was frequently someone we liked, and the message was welcome. But these days when the landline trills most of us hesitate. It is often a solicitor, hidden under the guise of a believable number.
Getting the mail was once a joyful task. I recall a December morning back in the early eighties when I came home from the post office with two dozen festive cards. I teased the kids by pulling out one at a time, and then showering them with envelopes until they shrieked with laughter. These days, though, the proportion leans more heavily toward bills and political fliers than correspondence from people I love.
A clutch of such missives was waiting for me at the post office today. There was a lovely thank you note from a recent bride. A latecomer in the flood of college pamphlets too was in the mix. And something from the dentist. Not very hopeful.
Then I sliced the flap. There were numbers to be sure, but the one at the bottom surprised me.
-1.
Apparently we overpaid the last bill by a hundred pennies.
Years ago when John and I were first enamored of each other our letters and phone calls were laced with affection. Love was on every page and sprinkled through each conversation. But gradually such flirtations have become diluted with the incessant minutia of running a household and parenting children.
At one point I had a knee jerk response when John called me from across the house.
"Lori!"
"What did I do?"
He did not appreciate that reaction. I have mostly extinguished it, but I notice that I could still up my game. Be as excited to hear from him as I once was. Maybe I could even offer a refund. Give back some of the kindness he has granted to me.
