It came from the blue city, Jodhpur, some place in Northern India. The envelope was over stamped with pictures of unknown maharanjis. The paper was a luscious linen with watermarks when held up to the light. My husband never called me dearest but he did when he put his pen to paper, his hand connected to his heart. I don't remember what the letter was about. I received it one day in the early days of internet connectivity. In his written words, I heard a voice I had never known. He was faraway but holding those sheets of paper in my hand, I felt closer to him than I ever had before. He wrote of being on a camel in the desert, the throngs of humanity and how he missed me. I was so far away. In a letter, I discovered something I had known for twelve years but in some way I had never known at all. The written word helped me discover someone new who had been at my side all along despite being on the other side of the world. We are lost today without letters. The evanescence of email robs us of that connection to time and the heart. Letters slow things down, make us pause and write with an intimacy that is true. I save all my letters. My mother saved all my letters from college giving me the memory of the girl I once was on the road to becoming who I am today.