I RECEIVED A LETTER from my dad in the mail today. I love getting mail from my dad because he’s really not the sentimental type that would send a Hallmark card, or $20. Dad’s letters always come in a long envelope spattered with greasy fingerprints, his very own NORTHERN BRAKE SERVICE stationery. He addresses his letters to a Jenny Marie Christen, a title I haven’t seen written out since my high school graduation. Both my parents have always insisted on using my middle name, though I am hard-pressed to believe that they have any idea the disfavor I impart on it…
“Dear Jenny,” he writes on his stationary, a lined sheet with blocks of local businesses’ advertisements along the margins. “A slow day comes to an end, and I am making time to send you a short note.”
I picture my dad, standing at the front counter of the store, or sitting his his ramshackle chair at a sooty, defiled desk in the corner of his office. Surrounding him are dated family photos and calendars from years long passed, scraps of paper scribbled with websites he’d like to someday pass through and the names of people that can do something for him — or vice versa. Dad works on brakes all morning and afternoon, and when he’s not busy, he writes me letters.
There’s nothing overtly exciting in his notes — never “We won the lottery,” or “I bought your mom a new car.” Telling of his days at work is the benchmark, then occasionally of someone’s death, perhaps a paragraph about a relative, and then one of how my brother is doing in sports.
The one paragraph that pains me to read is when he addresses my college days, reiterating that they are numbered and leisure times in the future will be far and few. This paragraph always manages to creep it’s way in, and is always ended with a sort of sentence that tells me to relax and have — more — fun.
My parents know that I am immensely uptight, that I occasionally spend evenings in solitude and frequently worry about school. They know that I turn friends down to hang out at my apartment instead of going out, they know that my life has succumbed to the “work, homework, work” routine that so many students fall victim to. They know I would blatantly consider myself to not have a life. They know it, and I dislike it. I wish they weren’t right.
“Enjoy your time now,” he’d write. I want to tell him, I am trying!
Dad’s signature touch is slipping a crisp $2 bill into every letter he sends. It is not enough to buy a cup of coffee, coincidentally; regardless, I could never find it in me to spend the bills. They are too scarce in my eyes, too nostalgic, and I don’t dare squander Dad’s way of saying, “I love you.”
“P.S. This is an old $2 bill, hang on to it.”
I fold the letter back up, sandwiching the 1976 bill between all his words of wisdom, encouragement, and how my little brother is doing in sports.
I love you too, Dad.
approximatelyes.com 
awesome awesome! oh, and as long as you’re making the right decision for yourself each and every day– the ones that reflect how you feel and what to do based on that mood– then you’re living a fulfilling life. that’s how i just my own staying in rather than going out most nights.