They were laying way in the bottom of her cedar chest, under some winter clothes. A place I never had reason to go to, because it was all of her stuff. I was cleaning out her clothes to give them to someone when I found the letters—all tied up with a ribbon—looking like a Christmas gift. I read the return address on the yellowed envelopes and it was my parent’s house, the only mailing address I had way back then. I remembered that she had answered each and every letter I ever sent her. But I, being me, never took the initiative to keep her letters to me like she had done. How I wish I had them now, but they are gone with the tides of life, like the “Love Letters in the Sand” Pat Boone had crooned about way back then when we were kids.
Carefully, I set them on the bed. But something was telling me—don’t open them up—not yet. It’s been over fifty years since I wrote them, so I scarce remember what they said, but I know it was all part of the courtship. The winning-over process all young lovers go through. Who knew back then what a wonderful relationship would come from this. That what we thought was love back then was only infatuation, but it was the seeds of a love that grew and grew. That love isn’t born from first impressions, but it comes from a lifetime of caring and sharing—from good times and sad times together. Yes, sickness and health, and being a family.
In order for these letters to be meaningful I would first have to visit the past in the right order, as if I was going through an old picture album, one year at a time starting at the back. Maybe it would be like reading a book from the back to the front. The ending of our story is still fresh in my mind; it’s all the chapters in-between her last loving act, and that puppy love that I know is in those envelopes, that I need to remember. All the acts that never were written down because I was too busy, or I was taking her for granted.
When I write a book I have to have two things in place before I can start—the beginning and the end. The rest of it always falls in place because I know where I started from, and I know where I’m going with the story. How I’m getting there—well, that’s the meat and potatoes, and basically, the story. This story of her and me is somewhat similar because now, I have both the beginning and the end. But there is a small difference, because this time, my journey doesn’t need to be a written journey. It just needs to be “a remembering journey” of how I got to where I am right now. Then those letters, lying on the bed, will mean so much more to me.
So, for now, those letters will remain unopened and someday, when I’m ready, they will be opened around a campfire with my crying towel and maybe a cold beer. They will be read one last time and burned and their secrets will die with me. In the song, “The Story of my Life,” the last line says, “So the story of my life will start and end with you.” Yeah, that’s what I’m trying to say, isn’t it?
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