Me, Dust and Thank Yous - Joan Lennon

 

Arizona Sandstorm 2011 photographed by Roxy Lopez 

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I have an unnecessarily intimate relationship with dust. As in, the older I get the less I do it, and the less I do it the more bunged up I get when the activity of dusting is forced upon me. (Why dust when disturbed feels obliged to head straight up my nose is not clear to me, but I suspect there is some sort of magnetism involved.) 

Last week, when my ancient, second-hand, insanely heavy, ridiculously bulky printer finally died, I got a new one, which is lovely, dainty and sleek.  But in the process of extracting the old one from its niche under my desk, I had to dust back there.  And in the process of dusting back there I found some old file folders full of thank you letters.

When I first started doing school visits, a goodly number of years ago, it was the custom for teachers to make the kids write thank you letters afterwards, which were then sent on to the author.  They were lovely to receive, even when they were clearly a task rather than a pleasure for the children involved.  There were lines to write on and a formula to follow, and if you were quick about it, you got to do some decorating around the edges.  And they made me smile, then and now.

But in amongst the bundles was one that was not so tidy.  It wasn't on a template and it wasn't decorated.  It was a sheet of slightly crumpled A4 with the words 'I love you! Nicola' scrawled across one side.

That one made my heart twist.  I don't know which school sent it on to me, or exactly when the visit was.  But based on the dates of the other letters in the folder, she will now be old enough to have little Nicolas of her own, and we would certainly not recognise each other if we passed in the street, masked or otherwise.  I will tuck her letter and the others away, to be rediscovered another day.  But until then, thank you, Nicola!  You keep me going, dust and all.

Max Slevogt Sandstorm in the Libyan Desert 1914 

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