Letters of Love

Just a few minutes ago--or a few blinks of an eye ago--on a spring evening, at a small college tucked along the Hudson River, the date being May 2, 1968, a lanky basketball player invited me on a date. On that day, two years later, our legs dangling over a cliff overlooking the same river, he asked me to marry him. And on that day this year, so many minutes later, we happened to be in his hometown. 

We were visiting Spouse's niece and nephew, who, after losing both parents in recent years, were beginning to clean out the family homestead.  The house had been in the family, there along the Delaware River, for several generations. Their mother, Spouse's sister, was birthed, and 64 years later died, in the same room in that house.

"We got something for ya," they announced as they produced a box crumbling with age. It was full of letters ... letters we forgot we wrote ... letters we hadn't thought of in years ... letters assumed gone to the trash decades ago. There they were. All of mine to Spouse during our courtship, and some letters from his sister and college friends as well. He actually saved them! What fun the kids had watching my face as we opened letters and read excerpts aloud. Sometimes I wanted to crawl under the couch. A real treasure, good memories––a gift on this the anniversary of when it all began! 

We found a stronger box, packaged them up, overdid it on taping it up, and mailed the box home to ourselves. How should we tiptoe into this bit of history? A letter a day? A long evening of laughing together while reading a bundle aloud? Well ... to be read, or not to be read, or how to be read ... at our leisure.