I was a student in college, just an hour's drive from home. My parents and I rarely spoke on the phone: long distance calls were expensive in those days. Letters were generally not necessary unless there was a specific need (like money). And I went home most weekends, at the insistence of my parents.
My father was not a writer. The most I ever remember him writing was his signature on checks, recording information in ledgers, and writing names on tags for watches brought for repair.
One day I pulled out an envelope from my mailbox with my father's handwriting. I was surprised and could only imagine some problem, but when I opened the envelope there was only a letter. The briefest of letters. It was so short, two or three lines, that I wondered that he'd taken the time to write it and spent the cost of a stamp to mail it. My old brain, to the best of its memory, thinks it said that he was home alone because Mom had gone to club and that he just wanted to say hi. He may (or may not) have included "love" before his signature.
I didn't save the letter. Perhaps it went straight to the paper can or
maybe it laid around for a week or so. At the time I didn't realize the significance of a single letter from my father -- the only letter ever from him.
How I wish I'd saved it!