Then I used to go to the post office to buy a beautiful stamp, stuck it carefully in the corner and then, excited, I used to throw the letter in the large red box on the street.
Then wait. Counting the days. I imagine how my letter was put in plastic bag, then sorted, the went far away into the last carriage of the train, then arrived at another post office, then it was placed carefully in a big brown bag among other letters and finally arrived in the mailbox.
It was carefully torn, or cut in speed, in the first minute or after a few days. Then started to write back. And keep writing. And writing. Answered my questions, told me new things and made a long list of questions. And plans for farewell.
Then a new letter started the adventure of its life on the way to me.
And I counted the days I should receive it. And one day, I opened the mailbox …