A beeping smoke alarm recently signaled the need for a battery change. Reaching for the container of replacements, I was greeted by my mother’s handwriting on a box she had addressed to us decades ago. Each time I open it I welcome with a smile the waves of memory her signature summons.

My mom has been gone for more than twenty years. Her writing is more precious with the knowledge that it came from the years before degenerating eyesight deterred her from writing at all. In my mind’s eye the squiggly lines of her script morph quickly into moments with her that have become increasingly prized for their truths and their absence.

Our signature is a unique witness to who we are and what we stand for. Legal contracts require it as a testament to our half of the obligation. It conveys to our friends and loved ones the special connections of our relationships and our commitment to them. The way we sign off tells who we are. It is as true of our lives as our letters.

I read recently that some schools no longer teach cursive, apparently yielding to the dominance of the digital age. If so, the speed and short hand of texting and emojis comes at a price. I once devoted time to practicing calligraphy, searching for a distinctive presence on the page. It forced me to think about who I was and what I wanted my signature to convey. Then literally I had to put it in writing.

Perhaps that is the core message: what our words and deeds say about us to ourselves and others become our life’s signature and the legacy we leave for our friends and loved ones