THE LOVE LETTERS

Somewhere in a cute little chest of drawers, right around the corner from where I'm writing, is a stack of old letters held together by a rubber band.  Once, they were wrapped with a pink ribbon, but that ribbon, a victim of the years, is long gone.  The letters were written in the early '30s...from my father to my mother, and my mother to my father.  For a time during their courtship, they lived 90 miles from each other...a long distance in a 1920's era automobile.  There was no train service and, I would guess, no buses were available.

The letters--I'd always known they existed--came home with me in 2004, after I cleared out my Mother's room at the retirement facility she lived in for so many years.  They were some of the few treasures I moved from Kansas to Arizona after her death.  I put them in a box under the guest room bed, then nearly forgot about them.  Some years later, when my sister visited, I sent them home with her to read.  And she did.  "Marg," she wrote, "you need to read these letters.  They're wonderful, and I have such a different impression of Daddy now."  (Daddy was quiet, reserved, even tempered, and very hard of hearing.  Communication was never easy.)  I assured Mary that I would indeed sit down immediately and read them.  That was 2008.

Today, in 2016, I will be putting that cute little chest of drawers into storage as part of a paint-up, fix-up project we will soon begin.  I must clear out those four drawers and find additional storage for the few items I will save.  I will save the letters.  The "love letters" as I think of them.  Contrary to my assurances to my sister, I never touched them.  I've looked at them since, all bundled together with that ratty rubber band. The least I could do is find a nice ribbon.

I would like to read them.  When I was younger, they fascinated me, but I never touched them.  They weren't mine, they were private and they were personal.  I really didn't think with that much maturity, but something about those letters was different.  Sacred, even.

I've been doing a little writing lately, creating stories from a few memories of years gone by and, at the same time, whining because I don't feel like I ever really knew my mother.  My Authentic Mother, as it were.   For that matter, my Authentic Dad also...but he was an easier read.  The letters might help that venture...but at 71, I still hesitate.  What to do?  I open the drawer, I pick up the letters, I put them back and, gently, close the drawer.  I'm not sure what holds me back, but something does.  At the same time, I believe I may regret not reading them. Regret not taking time to get to know them a little better...from the other end of life.  Read? Or Not Read?  I don't know--but I'm willing to listen to opinions and/or advice...