Box of Letters

My husband and I had a three-year long-distance relationship before we were married. The letters we wrote each other were put into a box and stashed away somewhere in the basement and largely forgotten as children grew and life proceeded. Once in a while we reminisce about our old letters to each other. I’d go down to the basement in search for the letters and come back empty-handed. Perhaps they had been inadvertently thrown away during one of the many moves.

I went down to the basement the other day to clear out the Girl Scout camping equipment that someone said she wanted to have. While at it, I thought I also had a box of Girl Scout pencils on a bookshelf and wanted to give them away as well. I didn’t find the pencils, but I found the elusive box of letters. I didn’t dwell much on the reason I missed this box in previous searches, nor did I care to know where the pencils were, I took the box upstairs.

A flood of memories and emotions engulfed me as the box did not just contain letters my husband and I wrote to each other, but letters I’ve received from friends and family members as well as my own diaries scribbled on pieces of paper. It was a bittersweet experience as I pored over writings of four decades ago. Sometimes it seemed as if I was reading about a young girl who is removed from myself. I felt for her. She held dark thoughts I have long forgotten. Things forgotten are now available in ink. Some of them brought tears to my eyes.

I marveled at the special relationship each letter conveyed. Someone cared enough to write me, put a stamp on an envelope and mailed me a letter. Did I forget I was indeed loved by many as I forgot the depth of the turmoil within me? Did I actually say this country will never be my second country for I only had one and lost it? Did I try to forget my old friends for I never thought I’d ever see them again? Did I think I didn’t deserve even self-love?

I told a friend about the box. He exclaimed that he felt emotional as he was listening to me. He was the first to whom I confided that it was a lie when I wrote recently that I loved this country “since the day I stepped on its soil.” It didn’t agree with what was on a piece of paper forty years ago. He didn’t judge. He understood. He thinks I have a story to tell – at least to my children. I think I will.