I came upon a box. Nothing special. No marks or dates on it. No reason to think it was anything but an old dusty, musty box. It had been in the bottom of my closet for quite some time, how long I don't know. I didn't remember putting it there or why I was keeping it. I pushed it aside with every intention of throwing it in the trash. But I couldn't, so I put it aside and went on with my rearranging. ...
That box, it stayed on my mind for days. It pushed it's way into my dreams. I wondered why it had such a strange hold on me...then I decided to open it.
It was full of letters. Love letters. Love letters from my father to my mother. And love letters from my mother to my father. Before they were wed, before they were parents, before the burdens of life would bear down on their beautiful lives.
They talked of ordinary things that are not ordinary at all when you are young and find love and passion. They talked about their families, vacation, work, and counted the days until they could see each other again.
My father talked about his last trip to Montreal to gather his belongings and how the last night he was there they had a big party with all the cousins together, 14 Henault's gathered in the streets singing on the trolley and counting how few of them were left and if the boys didn't marry and father boys it would be the end of the line. As fate would step in many years later there were no boys who survived and fathered sons.
Air mail was 3 cents and as they wrote each other every day it must have been 'expensive.'
He called her 'darling, and 'sweetheart.' She called him 'honey,' but signed her letters with her first name.
Excuse me, I have something in my eyes, and more reading to do.