Not too terribly long ago, I remarked on some of what my darling daughter, Ms. 8, was leaving behind. In the months since, she’s gotten to have a concert (that I had thought was cancelled; I’m pleased to have been made wrong) and gotten to have a closing ceremony for her elementary school years. She’s also gotten to go to a series of camps (that is not done yet as I write this, nor will it be done when this piece emerges into the world), having enriching and uplifting experiences that I have every expectation will help her as she moves ahead into the next school year and the world outside the classroom.

As happens, my daughter has sent some letters as a result of her camp experiences, trying to retain connections to some of the people she met while away, trying to maintain a network of people that extends beyond the small town where we live and across the state, perhaps to grow larger yet as people move and take on new things. It’s something she has done for years, as she’s been going to camps for a while, and when she gets a letter back, it’s typically a source of delight.

When one returns to her, as happened, that has a postmark from 2023 and was addressed to people she last saw some two years ago, though, it’s not a happy thing.

I know it’s likely that the envelope had fallen into some crack or crevice when it was originally received, lost to sight and thought until some change in administration or furniture moving brought it back to light. I know it’s likely that those to whom the letter was addressed have moved on with their lives, no longer part of the part of the world they shared with my daughter briefly a while back. I know it’s likely that some office-dweller saw a piece of mail meant for someone else and didn’t note the date of the postmark. But I also know the look I saw on my daughter’s face as she saw the letter, saw her handwriting addressing it to friends she thought she had reached out to, saw the “Return to Sender” emblazoned by another’s pen upon it, and it was hard for me to think kindly of circumstances.

I know, too, that it is a small sadness, indeed. There have been and are greater ones about, and not too far from here or too long ago. I am not unmindful of the relative scales of things, not at all. And if it is the case that this is the most that touches my daughter at the moment, I am a grateful man for it. But I can be aware that things could be much worse, appreciating that they are not, and still wish that not even so much had touched my daughter as that.

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