letter reading

I was waiting for a train to studio this afternoon, and a woman sat next to me, reading a letter written on yellow legal paper. Of course I looked over her shoulder to read part of the letter...part nostalgia at the letters I used to write, part pure nosiness...the letter was so sad.

It was written by someone who is in jail, whose son is living with his grandmother, who adopted him; his son's mother and new boyfriend are on drugs (or so the letter writer thinks); his father just got out of jail after 22 years inside; his mother is terminally ill and doesn't have health insurance; his niece is on a Christian mission in Honduras (the only one to get out); his other family is overwhelmed by too many children, not enough partners sticking around, and not enough money to go around; his other children are also adopted by other family members; another son is also serving time (3 years)...

I felt so sad for the letter writer as well as the letter reader. Reading hand-written letters has always been such a joy for me; an account of someone else's life that was important enough to share in writing. No one does this anymore; we have the internet. I miss letter writing. It's bittersweet that the first letter I've read (albeit over someone's shoulder) is from someone in prison. In a way it pours salt on the wound.

I can't help but think of Diane Jacobs' work in Santa Ana: "Do you know someone who is incarcerated?" with all the fingerprints. Identification. Incarceration. Laceration.

I wonder where that woman was going who was reading the letter. She didn't get on my train but was waiting for another.