I can't remember the last time I went to the mailbox and found a handwritten letter.

And for the life of me, I can't remember when I've sat down the right one either.

Over the years, my writing in general has been limited to college papers and emails.

But now, even email has been saturated with junk mail.

My mailbox and inbox are filled with solicitations, but rarely anything of a But now, even email has been saturated with junk mail.

My mailbox and inbox are filled with solicitations, but rarely anything of a personal nature.

But recently, I got a different kind of email, a message I've never received in any kind

of format.

It said, I don't know if this is the Raymond Christian that I've been looking for, but I've

been trying to find you.

Then the sender gave a few other details.

He said he saw me performing stories online and then asked if I had been in the Army.

My name is Justin, and I sent you a letter when I was nine

years old. As soon as I read that line, I was transported to 1991. I could visualize the font, the print of the letter, a child's handwriting.

I could almost remember every word.

And it brought me back to a time when everything was life or death.

The message blew me away.

It blew me away. It blew me away.

Now who is this postman?

Well, I'm not defined with a singular salutation.

Some may call me a ghetto kid or a southern black gentleman,

a retired army paratrooper, or a doctor of education, a teller of stories, a

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