I’m momentarily stunned—unnerved by their very sight, eager to open, but reluctant to read them. I remember Maggie’s letters being alive and revealing; mine, I remember being cautious and boring. I lift a couple letters from the box—one of Maggie’s in an envelope and one of mine without. I remove Maggie’s letter, unfold it, and I’m immediately shaken by her handwriting. I quickly place it back in its envelope. I can’t read her letters now. I just can’t.
Yet, I want Maggie to be near and I know reading her letters will bring her to me. But I’m afraid—afraid to see Maggie’s handwriting, read her words, hear her thoughts, feel her love—afraid to feel the hurt, to face the reality that Maggie is no longer here. Maybe if I start with one of my letters, I could ease myself into reading Maggie’s. After all, I know what to expect. It’s my letter and it’s surely going to be a complete bore. I unfold it and begin reading. Although it is my letter and my words, my chest tightens and I begin breathing deeply as tears fill my eyes. I quickly put the letter back in the box before completing the first page, place the box back on the closet shelf and hurry from the room. It’s too soon.
Several weeks pass before I can bring myself to try again. With trembling hands, I slide the box from the shelf, bring it to the bed, and slowly open it. I gaze at the envelopes, move my fingers across the tops, gently fan them apart, and carefully lift several of Maggie’s letters from the box. My eyes fix again on her handwriting. Maggie’s handwriting is so expressive of the soft, flowing, distinctive, elegant, yet unpretentious person she was. I caress the letters and bring them to my face, hoping I can smell Maggie’s perfume. How silly to hope a scent might still remain after forty-five years. I think there is a faint fragrance, but I’m sure it’s just my imagination. I slowly move the letters from my face but keep staring at them. I still can’t bring myself to open Maggie’s letters. Not yet. I know now that I must start with my letters and read all of them before daring to read Maggie’s. My letters are interspersed between hers and are neither dated nor in envelopes. As I begin reading my letters, I don’t feel the pain I did weeks before. My initial recollections are quickly confirmed—my letters are stilted and stumble from my head. I remember Maggie’s letters always carrying a piece of her heart. What a pompous ass I used to be. If our letters were how we connected, how did Maggie fall in love with me?
I assume all the letters are in chronological order, but it is quickly apparent, from the content of six or seven of mine, that they aren’t. Since almost all of Maggie’s letters remain in their postmarked envelopes, I soon realize I will have to use hers as a base to recapture the development of our relationship. I can no longer delay reading Maggie’s letters. I lift several of them from the box. Anticipating what I am about to find, I take a deep breath. My heart races, my hands tremble, my eyes mist. Again, I begin to put the letters down—but I know I can’t. I can no longer postpone the inevitable. Realizing I can’t escape, I begin reading. Reading Maggie’s letters is much harder. God, she writes such beautiful letters—full of energy, life, humor, wit, and love. It’s as if we’re sitting next to each other having a conversation, as if we’re on a date. She’s by my side every time I read one. It isn’t words on a page—it’s her voice in my ears, her face in front of mine, her laughter and her smile. As I read her letters, I am with her again—with my vibrant, funny, loving Miss Maggathie. I cry and have to stop a number of times. After reading six letters, I quit. The pain is too intense. I return the letters back to the closet.
Still, I’m drawn to the letters every day. If I’m out of the house on an errand, visiting one of my children, or simply doing housework, I feel this compulsion to read Maggie’s letters. I get anxious whenever I’m away from them for any length of time and feel like a nervous teenager with a crush whenever I sit to read one.
*** September 27, 1967
My Dearest Dennis,
For the past week, the days have been sunny and yet, I was rather depressed and somewhat bewildered because I received no word from you. Today, it was cold and rainy, and all the way home from work I was glowing as if I could feel the warmth of your letter sitting there on my stairway. I just knew you’d come through for me! Thank you, Dennis. I’ve missed that love of cold, rainy days when the chill is succumbed by the presence of someone I care for. How much I missed depending on someone who I can trust. Only you could have made me feel this way today. Dennis, how can I explain how happy your last letter has made me? Skipping downtown!! Dennis? You mean you aren’t starched through and through? Wait a minute! Tell me you sing in the bathtub! Tell me that and I’ll be forced to kiss you!!!
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