Raven-Haired

Three times I’ve written a letter to a friend, in the past month. Each time to a different person.

Three times the recipient received that letter and immediately called my phone.

Three times I ignored the call. Mostly because I don’t like talking on the phone, which is why I was sending a letter in the first place. But not entirely.

Irony - expectation turned on its head. It’s a simple surprise cooked up by the Universe.

Irony is the tiny hairline fracture in the sturdy foundation of “knowledge.” It’s the simplest and best counterpoint to the idea that we know everything.

One of my coworkers has blonde hair. Her name is Brenna, a name which means “raven-haired." I’m sure her parents had a great aunt named Brenna, or maybe they just liked the name and never even knew its meaning. Whatever the case, this golden-haired girl goes through life named for the shade of earth’s darkest birds—a living irony.

Living irony is also written into the urge to respond to a letter with a phone call. A letter is such a distinct form of communication—slow, written, deliberate. A true opposite from a phone call, with electrons passing through wires and satellites—immediate, dialogical, casual.

Irony is naturally humbling, which means by its nature it is a good thing. But occasionally, irony isn’t welcome.

In those moments, I write letters.