Thanking Penmanship

Karlene loved to write letters. She would spend hours writing to friends and family. Marla, her only daughter, who was divorced, lives three houses east on the same street. As a child, Karlene would write letters and leave them all over the house for her daughter to find. Marla learned to read and write quickly and would imitate her mother’s letter-writing habits.

The habit continued over the years as they would leave letters in each other’s mailboxes.

Thursday was Karlene’s bridge day. It was also her day to host the game at her house. Barbara, Ellen, and Nancy were early.

Refreshments were laid out in the kitchen as they sat around a small squared table enjoying themselves.

Suddenly the doorbell ringing interrupted their game.

Barbara’s eyes glanced up to Karlene, “You expecting someone?”

Karlene’s eyes shot to the clock on the stove behind Ellen, and she nods.

Resting her cards on the table, she went to answer her doorbell.

After opening the door, no one was there. Glancing around, she noticed a large red envelope was in her mailbox. Grabbing it and rushing back to her game, “give me a minute, ladies,” she said, snatching a knife from the countertop and slicing the envelope open. Sitting down, she read the letter as her three friends waited. Suddenly she dropped the letter on the floor, trembling. Barbara picked it up and read it.

“You looked as if you just received a death threat,” Barbara said, handing the letter to Ellen, who read it and passed it on to Nancy.

“Your daughter wants you to come over to her house now,” Nancy shares, putting the postcard on the nearby countertop.

“We have to call the police!” Karlene urged

“Why?” they asked in unison.

“My daughter is in trouble,” Karlene notified.

“You can tell by that letter?” Nancy demands to know.

“Yea,” Karlene notified.

“Why don’t you call her,” Ellen suggested. “You could be wasting the police’s time and resources if you are wrong.”

Karlene called the police against her friend’s objection. Then paced around in the living room anxiously waiting.

Twenty minutes later, two squad cars stopped in front of Karlene’s house, and her daughter and two grandchildren rushed towards the door. She opened it, and they ran into her arms in tears. Three police officers followed, introducing themselves.

The children sat on the sofa, fear in their eyes. Marla explains as she eased from her mother’s embrace, “Mom, Devon broke out of jail and came to the house. He was planning to kill all of us and wanted you to watch. He held a gun to my head,” she paused, allowing the tears to roam. “He forced me to write the letter to you knowing that you would come.” She paused, wiped her eyes, and asked, “Mom, how did you know I was in distress?”

Karlene went to a closet in the hallway and removed two shoe boxes.

Inside were many letters that her daughter had written to her for more than twenty years.

She points to the words written on them.

Nine pairs of eyes read, “happiness and sadness.”

Curiosity asked, “what does that mean?”

“Your handwriting told me you were in trouble.”

In knotted brows, one of the police officers asks, “Can you explain, please?”

“These are letters my daughter wrote me over a span of more than twenty-five years. This letter was written when she was nine years old, and Bobby Maxwell stole her lunch money. Then at twelve years old when she was bullied in class. At fourteen years old, when Tony Angelo broke her heart. This was when she met and fell in love with Devon. Then when he started to abuse her. This one is when he cheated on her, and this was when she filed for divorce. . .”

“Hold on!” the female police officer slides in, taking the letters and comparing the ones in the sad box to the ones in the happy box, and her eyes widen.

“Damn!” she said, showing the letter to her fellow officers.

“Wow!” they exclaimed.

“Didn’t you know that our handwriting is connected to our emotions and is different when we are happy or sad?” Karlene asked.

Marla quizzed, “Mom, I thought you were psychic all this time. You were only reading my emotions through my handwriting?”

“Yes, honey,” Karlene hugged her daughter again.

Marla hugged her mother tightly, “Thank God. You save us by my unhappy penmanship?”

The female police officer stressed, “I have been on the force for more than thirty years and I have never experienced such a miracle,” shaking Karlene’s hand. “A mother’s love does have the power to create miracles. Our police department is going to make sure that Devon Martin will never bother you and your family again. He is in custody and will be placed in maximum security.”

“Thank you,” They all say in unison.

Depression is one of my unwelcome visitors. A month ago, it visited, and I was at a place where I had forms to fill out. I could hardly write and couldn’t read my handwriting when I was done. It was when I realized that my emotions were connected to my penmanship. I redid that experiment and proved it was true. Being in a good mood, I write clearly and can read what I write.

Awareness is a tool, a powerful one.

Thank you for reading this piece. I hope you enjoyed it.