I bend over quickly to pick them up, because they’re old, and I’m not sure how well old paper holds up. They seem fine, though, as I inspect them—writing still faded, paper still worn, but otherwise intact.
A love story that’s lasted all these years; what would the rest of that even look like? A love that has conquered ups and downs and in betweens, a love that comes out on top no matter what?
My parents love each other. My father is completely devoted to my mother. She’s scatterbrained sometimes, prone to whims, but he follows along with a smile, going with her wherever the wind blows her. She, in turn, adores him. He’s her entire world.
It’s quiet, their love, but I’ve seen it my whole life. They’re both kind-hearted and sweet, gentle in ways I’m not, patient with each other always.
Something tugs in my chest, a painful longing so potent that for a moment I’m actually startled.
I’m very unlike my parents, especially my mother. But I could still have what they have, couldn’t I? With the right person?
I stare at the bundle of letters in my hand for another moment, and it doesn’t take me long to decide; I give a nod and then begin unwrapping the twine.
But Roman said I could read them all, didn’t he? He offered to let me read them, and he’s already read me some. If he hadn’t been willing, I wouldn’t look at them now.
I set the twine on the mantle—impeccably clean, by the way, still dust-free and gleaming—before shuffling through the letters. As I peer into the envelopes, I notice that there seem to be two letters per envelope. The first seems to be a letterfrom Roman’s grandmother and the second a response from his grandfather.
I reread the letters Roman read out loud to me, the ones about his grandmother waiting for his grandfather, and the sister visiting St. Louis, and the faint lipstick kiss on the back of the paper.
“Sweet,” I murmur, drifting over to the couch and settling down so I can read more comfortably. A smile tugs over my lips, but it dies quickly as I skim the words again.
It’s sort of sad. What ever happened to Roman’s great-grandmother? She was really sick.
I slip the letters back in their envelopes and shuffle them to the bottom of the pile, looking at the next one. It’s Roman’s grandmother’s writing again, and I have to reach further in to pull the paper out; it seems to have been shoved deep inside.
I’m surprised to find, however, that there’s only one letter here. I unfold it and begin to read.
My love, my Goddard, my dearest dream in the dark night of endless waiting,
I have been with you in my heart more as of late. Mama seems to be recovering to our immense joy, so I suppose the doctor’s fresh air must be lingering somewhere nearby. I dream always of coming to you, you know, I even have nearly enough saved for a ticket, only I worry about leaving for too long.
I suppose it would be impossible for you to visit, even for a short while? It has been so long, even since your last letter though I know you are busy. Still I am grateful you took the time to see Kitty, she returned in joyful spirits. She is doing well, and the rest of my sisters too, onlyKitty asks about you so frequently I think my heart might burst from missing you?—
But I keep that longing in my heart and wait faithfully for your return and answer Kitty’s questions with as much cheer as I can muster and in the meantime try to think of a match for her, so that I may not hear your name on her lips so often. It will not be difficult, as she is becoming the most beautiful of us all, only think that your children and mine will be the most beautiful things ever to grace this tired world!
Write quickly, my love, and if you’ve any inclination to return to me sooner, please heed that inclination, because I dream of you every day, you know, vivid and bright as my dreams at night.
Yours with most warm affection and love and adoration,
Your Elabeth (I rather worry you’ve forgotten my name).
“Elabeth,” I say with a nod. It’s good to have a name to put with these professions of love. “Is there not a reply?”
I check in the envelope again, but there’s nothing else, so I move on to the next—and last—envelope.
There are two letters here, both of them short, both in Elabeth’s writing.
My love,
I have saved enough for a ticket to visit you! I cannot tell you how jubilant this makes me feel—a word I spoke aloud to Mama, and she was impressed, and she is even more impressed that I was so disciplined as to save for solong. Please write as soon as possible with your available dates and I will be by your side again!
Yours always and always,
Your love.
The next letter is even shorter, and even though the people in these messages have already died, I feel a twinge of concern for them anyway.
My dear Goddard,
