Love Letters

At first it was all I could do not to read them. I had found them stashed in a trunk that by appearances had every intention of being presumed forgotten. However the dusty atmosphere in the southwest attic corridor coated nearly everything in at least a thin filament, so it bared to reason that at least someone was sneaking regular peeks at this collection during indeterminate intervals.

And, truly, a collection it truly was. Stashed within pockets of the inside cover, taped fondly under aged photographs, and sealed and opened and resealed, was a box. The box was marked with a black lace rose pattern, peeling at the edges but otherwise in tact (although whether it had been lovingly reglued over the years was unknown). The hinges on the box, wooden and stained before its decoration, were not nearly new and the clasp was more of a suggestion than anything else.

Inside, were stacks of papers, folded repeatedly, and the last two the most weathered of all.

"My darling. He will never leave you, for he loves you as much as I do. I do not envy his sincere disappointment when I've stolen you away and our lives become one."

"My darling. The war rages on in my soul during this time of confusion. I know now that you must stay with him, despite the hopes of our own future. Never forget me. Someday perhaps the complications that deal ourselves in our own wretched lives will dissipate and and we will have the opportunity to be one, without prying eyes or half-hearted commitment. With sincere affection and regret."

Naturally, I was stunned. I stayed silent, very still for a long time as I tried to process all of this. A woman that I thought I had known all this time who kept a secret correspondence. A lover from somewhere indistinct yet with a readily available postal service. My world was not shattered, no, but rocked in increasingly ungentle waves.

I quietly, with moisture in my eyes, folded the papers and restacked them to their places. I closed the box with the letters inside. I reclasped the vaguely fictitious latch on the front of the box. I placed it back in an everyday, unsuspecting, nonthreatening location, nearly just at the edge of window, signifying no true value of it's contents for what was it but a box of random jumblings, perhaps pins or thimbles or disinteresting, outdated wires for appliances a neighbor couldn't bring themself to toss out so you took, knowing you would never utilize any of it.

I walked silently to the stairs, my only betrayl a hushed creak under my footsteps.

As of today, having read these letters, and while I would continue to love regardless of whatever the past held, I was never exactly going to think of my mother the same way again.