i was trying to recall today
the last time that i wrote a letter to someone
not emailed
nor twittered or facebooked
but actually put pen to paper
watched the ink
arch and loop
across the page
it's been a while
electronic letters
never quite seem
to hold the same charm
as handwritten missives
and they are not hoarded
bundled together
tied with ribbon
or bound in string
crammed in some shoebox in the attic
relegated to the dusty gloom under a bed
hidden in drawers behind lacy unmentionables
at best
the important ones
are 'saved' in some virtual folder
forgotten at the click of a mouse
while it's been years since i went hunting for them
i have a sacred stash of love letters written to me
years ago
by a handsome lad
they are brimful of hopes and plans
dreams for the future we are now spending together
sweet poems
silly jokes
endearing words of faith and promise
kept safe
because
they are a part and parcel of the history of us
now cracked and faded
yellowed
as we will one day be
i like to imagine
some obscure date in the hazy future
one of our children
happening upon them
unsuspecting
perhaps whilst cleaning out a dusty attic
purging the unnecessary accumulation of someone else's lifetime
as she opens an unmarked box
not knowing what lies within
searching fingers brush a curious bundle
lifting
she pauses
wondering what it is she has unearthed
tugging on an old, once-pink ribbon
undone for the first time in 50 or so years
the letters
fan out in her hands
some fall
scattered on the wooden floor
like leaves from an autumn tree
hastily wiping dusty hands
on untucked shirt tails
the first letter is gently eased from its
post-mark faded envelope
she begins to read
painstakingly deciphering the cramped writing
of a 19 year old boy
and then
with excitement
and understanding
her eyes skim across the page bit faster
until
words suddenly blur
run together
reaching for her mother's handkerchief
the reader begins again
chore abandoned
time forgotten
as she loses herself in someone else's story
realizing
that these words
heartfelt
and simply penned
form the beginning of a tale
that belongs to her
later
finished
she refolds the last crackling page
along old lines
taking care to make no new creases
eases it back into its envelope
stacking the letters
she pauses
clutching them to her for just a moment
before taking up the old, age-thinned ribbon
to wrap it once again around this paper trove
she places the bundle
back into the unadorned cardboard box
that will not be discarded like so many others
but will make it's way
to her own home
to be safely hidden
in a new corner of another attic
where it will sit
gathering dust
waiting
for another time
another reader
{alison}