Hidden in a stack of bills and junk mail was something I never see anymore: a hand-written postcard.

In this world of e-mail, texts and video chat, I get very little snail mail. And hand-written letters? Never.

So, yes, it seems like a small thing, but this postcard was a big deal.

When my friend moved away a few months ago, I didn't think it would be hard to stay in touch. She's in Pittsburgh, but we're on Facebook. Keeping up with each other is as easy as a few clicks.

Only it isn't. Thumbnail pictures and text messages are no substitute for a midweek lunch and laughing face to face.

Finding time for phone conversations hasn't been easy, and when there's not a lot of newness to report, you often don't dial.

We had an old-school friendship, the kind that came about slowly and through meaningful conversations. She wasn't someone I hung out with regularly, but I often shared things with her that I don't with my day-to-day social circle. We spoke about private things you can't scream over loud music at a bar: hopes, fears and love.

So I've missed that. Then, one day I opened up my mailbox and found that postcard waiting for me.

Everything about it — her handwriting, the image of a baby doll with an oversized face on the front — spoke of her lively personality and quirky style. Emoticons and type fonts can't convey that. I posted it on my fridge.

The instant indulgence of the Internet is undeniable. You can see the person you love right on your screen. You can talk to them. Technology really is a gift.

But let's not underestimate the power of the hand-written word.

For some reason, we'll say things on paper that we're too scared to say aloud. The tiniest little things with big impact, they sometimes get lost in daily conversation.

The way someone might dot an i with a circle, scrawl their letters or skip over a word or two gives you a piece of their personality.

Even the paper they choose or the stickers they use represent small tokens of their style. Sometimes you can smell the food they were cooking, the nasty cigarette they smoke or their favorite perfume. In a way, it's a sensual experience the telephone and the Internet just don't offer.

My friend has been gone for months, and we don't call as much as we should. But I opened my mailbox, and there she was, saying hello.