A Letter from the Stands

To my neighbor in the top row,

I am sitting in the highest row of the stands, where the wooden benches have been polished by countless weekends. This letter comes from London's East End, 1935–36, on ocher laid paper. The title is set in condensed slab serif, the way programs are printed, and a fine charcoal etching draws the steel and brick of the grandstand. There is also a green admission coupon, a rust-colored paper seal, and a small brick rowhouse. The letterpress bites so deep you can read it with your fingertips.

You may know better than I what gets shouted from here. A poet once set down a town's cheering: "The time you won your town the race / We chaired you through the market-place; / Man and boy stood cheering by, / And home we brought you shoulder-high." — A. E. Housman, A Shropshire Lad (1896)

The people in the stands have no names, but their cheers were real. Welcome; take a seat. We do not go down onto the field. We stay at the edge and write letters, finishing, line by line, whatever applause we meant to give.

From the seat beside yours

Storm Post Office

1935–36 · East End, London