Letters take time. Not just the writing of them, but the choosing of words, the consideration of the person who will receive them. In an age of instant messages, I've returned to letter writing.

There's an intimacy in knowing that the paper you hold was also held by someone who cares for you. That the words were chosen deliberately, not dashed off between other tasks. That someone sat down, took a breath, and thought of you.

I have a small wooden box where I keep the letters I've received. On difficult days, I sometimes read them again. The words haven't changed, but I have, and so they meet me differently each time.