A Box of Letters
She couldn’t go back to sleep. Something was poking at her, deep down inside. But she couldn’t put her finger on where it… hurt? Did it hurt? Maybe. Something just wasn’t right.
She sighed, threw off the covers, and swung her feet over the side of the bed. He was already up. He always got up before her. This morning, she would surprise him. She’d sit with him at the table and share coffee the way they did when they were first married. She smiled at the memory. She loved those days.
—
He was in his routine this morning. He loved a good routine. Up with the alarm. Into his favorite lounge clothes. Brush the teeth, comb the hair, push the buttons on the coffee maker. It all felt good. Settling in at the table with a cup of joe, his laptop, and the box of letters—it was the best part of his day.
He glanced briefly at the empty chair across the table. She used to sit there and they would talk in the mornings, sharing a cup of coffee. He smiled at the memory. They would stare into each other’s eyes, tell stories, laugh together. He recalled the wonder of having this woman right there in front of him, giving him her full attention. She would wear the bathrobe he gave her for their first Christmas and give him looks that made his heart beat faster.
They had met each other at a wedding, each coming from a different part of the country. She came as a friend of the bride, he as a friend of the groom. The scene was burned into his memory. He met her at the punch table and was struck almost dumb by her grace and beauty. She saved the awkward moment by introducing herself. She stuck out her hand and he froze—just stood there like a deer staring at the lights of an oncoming car. She withdrew her hand and ended up dropping a cookie on the floor next to the table. As she bent down to retrieve it he came out of his stupor and bent down to retrieve it for her. In his haste, he reached out to steady himself on the table, but grabbed the punch bowl instead, which ended up dumping its contents upon her head and shoulders. She stood and gave him such a look. She was mortified. He was mortified.
He let out a sigh with the memory and felt his face flush with the emotion of the moment. He felt again the sinking feeling that this beautiful girl would never ever talk to him again. He never said a word to her and never saw her after that. A few days later he asked around, got her address, and wrote her a hand-written letter, apologizing profusely. And to his surprise, she wrote him a letter in return. That’s how things started.
The letters continued, at first sporadically, and then more frequently. He would call her on Saturdays, but during the week she would write him letters. Every day he would eagerly check the mailbox to see if it contained one of her letters with an aroma of her perfume. Only later did he realize she would have to write Monday’s letter the week before, so it would arrive in his Monday mail. She was always thinking ahead.
Once married, they would sit at the table together in the mornings over a cup of coffee. He had so many questions for her. He would ask her about something she had written in a particular letter, and what she meant by it. “Oh, that!” she would say with a slight blush and twinkle in her eye. She would explain more deeply her thinking and emotion behind the remark and then he would blush. Her love for him ran deeper than he imagined. He didn’t deserve this wondrous creature, but he didn’t know how he could live without her.
He sighed deeply and pushed the memories aside, turning his focus to the day, reaching for the box of letters on the table. It was a well-worn shoebox. A boot box really, big enough to hold all the letters she had sent him when they were dating. Its corners were unraveling a bit and in need of some duct tape to hold them together. He made a mental note to repair the box after work today.
Those were wonderful days, he told himself. They’re married now, have two kids. Life is good, just different. He gets up early, she generally later. But today she surprised him. As he was opening his laptop, she walked into the room with a cup of coffee and sat down across from him. There she was, just like the early days, sitting across the table from him, coffee mug in hand. She smiled at him and raised the mug to her lips.
He felt a little like the deer in the headlights again. He just stared at her. Her left eyebrow went up, peeking over the rim of her mug. It was her way of asking him a question.
Her eyebrow woke him up. Sitting up straight and composing himself he spoke in feigned formality, “Good morning beloved wife and mother of my children. “What brings you out so early this morning?”
She lowered her mug and responded in kind. “The mother of your children thought it good to spend her morning moments with the Lord of the Manor—before his children rise and bring chaos to the household.” He noticed the corner of her mouth curl ever so slightly.
“We shall keep our conversation quiet, in hopes that they sleep for a while longer,” he said in low tones. Raising his mug, he took a sip and looked at her. She’s more beautiful now than when he first married her.
She winked at him and took another sip from her mug, letting her eyes take in the table. This was his space, his morning time alone. She noticed the old and well-worn shoebox containing the letters she wrote to him when they were dating. She knew the box. It was a companion to his coffee mug every morning. The two were inseparable.
“So, you like my letters, hm? Which one are you reading this morning?”
“Well,” he paused a moment, then continued, “I haven’t decided yet.” He looked at her a moment, then “maybe” he said stretching out the word, “I’ll plunge my hand in the box and pull one out at random!” His eyes got wide as if he had just said something out of the ordinary.
“Wouldn’t that mess up your routine?”
“Hey. Sometimes it’s good to live,” and then with feigned intensity, “on the edge,” he said.
“Oh. Edgy for sure,” she squinted. “I say go for it.”
While keeping his gaze fixed on her, he dramatically plunged his hand into the box and pulled out a letter. He held it up between them, “Behold!” he said in a triumphant tone.
“A bold move, my lord,” she said as if impressed by the feat, raising her mug for another sip.
He brought the letter to his nose and inhaled. “They’ve lost their smell,” he said with a hint of sadness. He carefully opened the envelope and pulled out a hand-written letter. She recognized her own handwriting and her stationary—the one with a faintly blue border and some flowers sprinkled here and there at the top and bottom. She would put a dab of perfume on the last page where she signed it—as a way to kindle his attention and affection. It evidently had the desired effect.
A thought crossed her mind and she acted on it impulsively. “I’ll be right back,” she said. But he didn’t seem to hear her. He was lost in himself, his memories, reading the letter. His expression was priceless—like a kid daydreaming with a far-away expression of wonder.
As she returned he was opening another letter, carefully pulling it from the envelope. She sat down across from him and lifted her mug for a sip, watching him extract the letter.
His eyes widened. “I can still smell this one!” he announced with a smile. “It reminds me so much of you.” He pushed his nose into the envelope and breathed deeply. “I can still… hm…” He tried sniffing the letter instead. “Hmm. Strange,” he said. “Your aroma is here, but” he didn’t finish his thought as he pressed first the envelope, then the letter to his nose, trying to locate the source of the aroma.
She took a sip of her coffee, hiding her smile behind the mug. He looked up from the letter in his hand and was again captivated by those beautiful eyes smiling at him behind the rim of her coffee mug.
She lowered her mug. “So what’s this one say?” She knew that would distract him and protect her secret.
He turned his attention back to the letter in his hand and was quiet for a moment. “Oh my.” He paused. “This one is about our first kiss.” They had met again a few times while they were dating—at another marriage ceremony and later at a church conference. On both occasions, they stole away for a “date” at a restaurant and a walk around a local park. It was at the park that they kissed. It was a long-standing debate as to who actually kissed who. He was pretty sure that she kissed him first.
“I remember our first kiss. And here you wrote to me about it.” He was quiet again as he read to himself. She noticed a slight flush on his face as he took a deep breath and let it out slowly.
She put down her coffee cup, leaned toward him, eyes bright. He glanced up at her and noticed her tongue peek out to lick her bottom lip. “And?” she mused, both eyebrows going up in a question.
“You were there. You wrote this, so it’s not like you don’t know.” He knew she wanted him to tell her the story again—the way he remembered it. She liked to hear him tell it. And then they could engage in the debate about who initiated the kiss. He smiled at her but didn’t take her bait and turned his attention back to the letter.
She sat back in her chair, looking down at the mug cradled in her hands. He continued reading. She didn’t interrupt him. She felt the silence and didn’t like it. So she got up from the table and decided to heat her coffee in the microwave. She watched him as she got up to leave, but he was lost in his own world.
When she got to the kitchen, she looked at the coffee in her mug, hesitated. Microwaved coffee just didn’t, it just wasn’t, it—she dumped it in the sink and filled her mug halfway with fresh coffee from the machine. She returned to the table and noticed he had put her letters back into the shoebox and was watching her sit down. He’s switched gears, she thought.
“I thought we could talk about some things coming up in the next few weeks,” he began. “There’s your mom’s car, my boss is asking me what days I plan to take off this year, and,” he continued with several other items but she just stared at her mug and watched the steam lazily drift up and over the rim of the cup cradled in her hands.
The silence woke her. She looked up and saw him staring at her. He was waiting for her to say something. “Maybe you should see what she has to say,” nodding her head toward the box of letters.
He sat back in his chair. He had that Uh-Oh feeling in his gut. “Sweetheart, it’s not like the letters are some other woman. They are you.”
She brought the mug up to her mouth to hide the quiver in her lips. “Are they?” she asked quietly, not looking at him, taking a sip of coffee. She heard him sigh. Then there was silence. But the silence was soon interrupted.
“Daddy, Daddy!” came the small voice and pattering feet of their daughter. She got a hug and kiss from her Father, then ran around the table and climbed into her Mother’s lap. “Are you reading Mommy’s letters again?” she asked excitedly. “Tell me about Mommy’s letters!”
“Sweetheart, I’ve told you about Mommy’s letters many times but….”
“Tell me again!” the girl pleaded. “Please Daddy, please!”
He hesitated, but then caved. “Well,” he began, “before you were born….”
“That was a long time ago!” the little girl said, her eyes getting bigger.
“Yes, a very-so-very long time ago.” He glanced up at his wife and she winked at him over the top of their daughter’s head. He went on to tell the story of their first meeting at the punch bowl, and how he wrote her a letter to say he was sorry. His daughter delighted in this story and each retelling was as exciting as the first.
He went on to describe the letters and how he saved each one in a big shoebox. He pulled a letter out of the box, waving it in front of her, and told her how he checked the mailbox every day, told her about the perfume in the letters that reminded him of this wondrous woman who lived far away from him. “When we were apart,” he said, “she said many wonderful things to me in her letters.”
“Mommy is right here Daddy!” Her little hands reached up over her head to find Mommy’s face and giggled when she felt her hands get a kiss. “Does she still say wonderful things?”
Her question hit him, creating an awkward moment. His daughter’s eyes were wide with the anticipated answer. He glanced up at his wife to see her looking at him. Her eyes were wet.
She didn’t blink, to avoid squeezing out tears. Out of the mouth of little children, she thought. She put her finger on it. Yes, it does hurt.
Looking straight at his wife, he answered his daughter. “I’m sure she does,” he said slowly. His mind was a jumble of thought and emotion. Looking at his daughter, “Sweetheart, I hear your little brother waking up. Go check on him please.”
Distracted by the noises of her little brother, the young girl forgot about her question and jumped down from her Mother’s lap, scampering off to the back bedrooms. He watched her go, then turned to look at his wife. Her eyes were still on him, searching for his answer.
He looked down at the letter in his hands, gently put it back into the box, and put the lid on the box. Picking up his coffee cup, he took a sip and looked her in the eye. “So, my beloved, what’s on your mind this morning? Something wonderful I’m sure.”
She raised her mug and looked at him over the brim of her cup. Her eyes were still wet, but they now had a sparkle. “I thought you’d never ask” she whispered.
