Love letters from long ago. Handwritten. Without spell checking and editing. A heart’s words dashed off simply on plain paper. In the envelope, a stamp and on its way. No way to pull it back—no retrieve and delete.
We wrote them and waited.
When we received, we read and re-read them.
We saved them.
If we’re fortunate… we find them again.
And when/if you do… they were—are—a picture of young love when everything was fresh. New. And how its taste, sound, and color—the romance—affected everything in your world. She/He was your world… and all you wanted was to be together.
Clearing out folders in my office, I found them with documents and personal correspondence. I read them and felt that tingle; damn near like when I first received 36 years ago. My eyes misted a bit, lost in the memory, and Alpha looked at me, “Dad?”
I handed her the letter in my hand and smiled. She and Beta read it, looked at each other in that way twins do. “Take that to your mother,” I told them.
A few minutes later, they came back grinning. “Mom says it’s mushy…”
I took the letter from Beta and went to find my wife. She was in the garage, fiddling with something in her car. “You don’t love mushy?” I came around to the open door, leaned in, and put my arms around her for a kiss—I felt the returned kiss turn into a grin as she looked over my shoulder through the windshield. From the laundry room door, where Alpha and Beta watched us, I heard: “Wuv… twu wuv…”
Daphne and I celebrate our 37th anniversary in June 2020.
Never let the realist kill the romantic in you. I pity the realist in me if it even tries. My romantic side will kick its ass. The realist helps you live life, but the romantic creates a life worthwhile.