Love letters from long ago. Handwritten. Without spell check. 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 received, we read and re-read them.
We saved them.
If we’re fortunate… even though it’s been years… decades… we find them again.
And when/if you do… they are a picture of young love when everything was fresh. New. And how its taste, sound and color—the romance—affected everything. 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 it 35 years ago. My eyes misted a bit lost in the memory and Alpha looked at me, “Dad?” [Note: I have four daughters, the two youngest are twins that I refer to as ‘Alpha’ and ‘Beta’ in my writing.]
I handed her the letter I had in my hand and smiled. She and Beta read it and then looked at each other in that way that 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. “What’s wrong with mushy?” I came around the open door leaned in and put my arms around her for a kiss. I felt the return kiss turn into a grin as she looked over my shoulder. From the laundry room door, where Alpha and Beta stood watching us, I heard, “Wuv… twu wuv…”
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.