Loving Texts, However Brief

The Boston Globe

We have been texting and e-mailing for one year now. I know this only because I printed out the first e-mail he sent and taped it in my journal. "On Aug 30, 2015 at 7:48 PM, Adam wrote: "I got my own computer!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!”

Adam is my grandson. He was 11 then, and it wasn't a new computer. It was his mother's old one. But he was thrilled. And so was I, not because he got a computer, but because he used it to write to me.

I wrote back immediately, a long, effusive reply, ending with questions which, I thought, would spur Adam to answer. Then I pressed "send" and waited. I was certain Adam's having a computer would open all kinds of doors for us. We would write back and forth every day about school and soccer and football and books and chess. E-mailing would be like passing notes in class. Only better. It would be our special connection.

Twenty-four hours later, Adam wrote back:

1. me too

2. at mom's

3. yes

4. maybe 

And so our communication has gone, mine always long-winded, gushy, full of X's and O's; his always brief and to the point. He texts, for example, a simple "Thanks, Mimi" whenever I make him his favorite Mexican food. He texts "OK" when I ask him to tell his sister something. He texts "Sure," even at my most outrageous requests. And he texts a stand-alone "Hi" every now and then. And I love this. I love that, once in a while, my now 12-year-old grandson thinks of me.

"Hi, Mimi," he texted last week. "I will not have cell service for the next 17 days." He and his sister were in the car headed to northern Maine to spend time with their other grandparents. Then they were going to an overnight camp for a week. "Have fun," I answered. "It's a big adventure," I gushed. "Write me a postcard, OK?" I begged. I tried to keep it short. But then I added a string of emojis, those little icons used to express emotions. A big "I Miss You" and a bigger "I love you." And a Bitmoji of me surrounded by hearts.

Adam replied instantly, not with words, but with four little red hearts.

I pictured him in the back seat of the car, playing games on his phone, listening to music, talking to his sister. And taking time out to message me.

And I thought about the summer I was 12, driving to New Hampshire with my parents to see the Flume and The Old Man of the Mountain, in the back seat untethered playing "License Plates" to pass the time. And I thought about how the only way we communicated then was with postcards that wouldn't reach their destination until we were already home a week, and how we would drive past pay phones because everyone was long distance and, unless there was an emergency, no one called long distance because it cost too much.

Distance is irrelevant now. We can call and text and e-mail and Skype anywhere with anyone, instantly. And it's so ordinary, so much a part of what we do every day, dozens of times a day, that we seldom think about how extraordinary all these things really are. 

Until four little red hearts on your cellphone remind you.

Adam's sister, who is 9, writes me notes, too, only the traditional kind on colored paper with colored pens. They are bright with "I love yous!" and big, hand-drawn hearts. She signs them, always, "Your granddaughter, Charlotte Anne." Sometimes, she leaves them on my desk. Sometimes she mails them to me. I tape them in my journal, too. I look at Charlotte's hand-drawn hearts and I look at Adam's texted ones. I'm thinking of you, they both say.

And I remind myself to remember this, that the simplest card, and the briefest text, the littlest things, can make a person's day.