Month 4: The Art of Correspondence

At some point in the distant past—possibly during a fever dream or religious awakening—my mother bulk-purchased a battalion of naked cherubim greeting cards replete with Latin phrases draped across banners.

These cards are technically art but make you question my family's aesthetic judgment. But if there’s one thing my friends have in common, it’s the experience of opening their mailboxes to find a pudgy angel butt staring back at them.

Concerning the Latin banners, keep in mind that my Latin education, courtesy of four years of academic rigor, left me with exactly two pieces of knowledge:

1. The Romans and Gauls had beef

2. Macrons are not to be confused with macarons.

   
   

While in school, I pioneered the ancient art of homework distribution—divide and conquer, right Caesar? It’s one-fifth the work… But, in hindsight, this may explain why I can recall roughly two facts about Latin.

So, these Latin-spouting cherubs could be announcing anything from "Happy Birthday" to "Sorry for Your Loss," and I've been dispatching them with the confidence of someone who definitely knows what they're doing.

Most of my letters didn’t contain anything earth-shattering—just "five-second happy memories" and inventory updates on the remaining naked angel stockpile. ("Only 47 cherub butts left! Thank you for your service in this noble depletion effort.")

The collection also featured some Marc Chagall cards with strategically placed breasts, though these were more geometrically arranged and thus less shocking to polite society. I even used one for a prayer project at church, writing daily prayers until the card was full. Fortunately, the friend who received the letter possessed breasts of her own, so the cover art didn't send her into cardiac arrest.

The card supply is finally free from Latin.

Though I approached this particular resolution with about as much fervor as I did my Latin classes, I found that ten minutes of scribbling complete nonsense is genuinely therapeutic. I kept the bar low—no profundity required, no word count minimums. Most of these masterpieces could have been text messages, saving me a fortune in stamps and the postal service's dignity.

But there's something deliciously subversive about real mail that isn't trying to sell car insurance or inform you of your outstanding student loans. Watching people light up over a handwritten note—even one featuring questionable Renaissance art—reminded me that small gestures of "I thought about you" still matter in our hyperconnected, and yet hyper-distracted world.

Plus, I finally cleared out my mother's aesthetic crimes against humanity, and my inner minimalist wept tears of joy.

The moral? Sometimes caring for people looks like ten minutes, a stamp, and the willingness to inflict naked baby angels on unsuspecting friends. It's not deep, but it works.