The Art of Cursive - Jan 30 2023

 

The Art of Cursive

Jan 30 2023

The handwriting was all hers,

a distinctive script

in elegant cursive

of the sort every child

was once expected to master.

The extravagant flourish

at the end of k,

her generous e's.

The green ink,

so idiosyncratic

I can't help but smile.

And the way she would run out of room,

squeezing in the last few lines

before the page ran out.

Just like her,

enthusiastic, resourceful

not the best planner.

Even the paper,

which was thick and creamy

and showed her care.

I rarely wrote back.

Phoned, perhaps,

more likely a text.

My cursive is terrible,

and aside from that

mail's too slow

letters too long.

So she will have nothing

to remember me by.

While I have a shoebox of letters

on acid free paper

carefully folded away.

It's been several years

since they stopped coming.

While the texts return

undelivered,

and the phone just answers

number no longer in service.

A flat disinterested voice

of indeterminate sex;

no beep to leave a message,

no forwarding address.

A recent article in the Atlantic on the decline of cursive elicited a strong reader response. The dialogue in the magazine suggested a poem.

The direction it took is telling. Perhaps a reflection of how my autistic tendencies have always made it difficult for me to sustain relationships.

The poem also contains an implied commentary on our modern fetish for saving time, as well as the decline of social graces. So with that mind, it seems fitting to have included two charming throwbacks: old shoeboxes, and handwritten letters.

I never really became comfortable with cursive, and now when I write by hand — which is surprisingly infrequent — I invariably print. I'm one of those right handers who writes backhand, so maybe the tendency to smear wet ink explains my difficulty.