FAMILY MATTERS
Letter from old friend jogs memories of childhood

By Michael C. DeMattos

I have a love-hate relationship with my mailbox.

There are only two things that come in the mail these days: magazines and bills. Love the magazines, which arrive like clockwork (about two weeks after they hit the newsstand — I suppose that explains the discounted rate). Hate the bills, which also arrive like clockwork, though they are always on time. Everything else is junk.

Thus you can imagine my shock when, checking the mail one day, I found a handwritten letter from a long-lost high school buddy.

As I walked into the house, my daughter looked at me and asked, "Anything good, or just bills?"

Her child's voice contrasted with the adult question and seemed surreal. Looking down, I noticed she had one hand on her hip and the other raised palm skyward.

"I got a letter from an old friend of mine," I answered.

"How old is he?" she asked.

I smiled, realizing that for all her savvy and sophistication, she was still a 6-year-old, and for this I was thankful.

I explained that he was my age, though we had not seen each other for nearly 20 years.

I quickly opened the letter and began to read it aloud. Our 20-year class reunion was around the corner, and he would be flying in from Colorado. He was hoping that we could get together. He provided his e-mail address and asked that I reply as soon as possible so that we could plan.

I put the letter back in the envelope and headed straight for the computer.

I sat down and within moments began typing. Memories long buried in my mind surfaced anew. With each memory came a flood of emotions. Some were joyful, others less so. All were valuable.

Then an interesting thing happened. As my fingers flew across the keyboard, I found myself talking about my life here and now. I explained what I did for a living, but also what I did for fun.

I talked about my family. I explained that I was married and had a daughter, and that my mother had passed away.

I could see my reflection in the computer screen. Maybe it was the lighting, but where just moments ago I saw a teen staring back at me, I now saw a man.

Even my inner voice had changed. It was deeper, echoing off the walls of my being.

It seemed a little bizarre, but somewhere over the course of 20 years, I had grown up.

It was not a sudden shift or change. I did not wake up one morning to find myself a man. It was gradual, like water carving a streambed in a vast canyon.

My fingers lay idle on the keyboard and a sudden knowing coursed through my body. I had not become a man through the death of my own childhood. The kid and his myriad of experiences was still there. My buddy was there, too, a part of who I am now.

I began typing again, distant and recent memories co-mingling, weaving a tapestry called life. Like an old blanket that had seen better days, I cast my memories wide, covering myself completely. It seemed the reunion had already begun.

Family therapist Michael C. DeMattos of Kane'ohe has a master's degree in social work.