love letters

Yesterday would have been my parents' 55th wedding anniversary. In the general din of sale contract hubbub, I am ashamed to say I forgot about it until late in the day. I should have called my Aunt Gini, who was Mom's matron of honor, at the very least. Oh well. I forgive myself.

One of the only tangible things I accomplished yesterday was packing up the leftovers of my parents' belongings, things that no one else took or wanted last weekend. I have a box in which they kept all their love letters to one another, written back in the 40's when they were dating, and when either Mom was away on vacation with one of her older sisters or when Dad was away from home, working in civilian service driving supply trucks. (He'd had scarlet fever as a child and one of his ears was damaged, making him ineligible for any of the Armed Forces. It was something that caused him a lot of shame during the war. And he tried to get in every branch of the service, poor guy.)

There are a few dozen letters, and at least as many cards. I can't bring myself to read them now. It's hard enough to look at them, and to consider that this is what has become of their lives, their love, and their long and happy marriage. And I'll admit it's not so much about my parents at this point - I'm thinking of me and hobbitt. We work, we strive, we struggle - and for what? For a pile of letters someday?

Not us. We don't write letters to each other. We're strictly AIM folks, and we don't save it. Nothing for our executor - bless her heart - to have to deal with. No written record. It's all on hard drives, baby! And even then, not saved. I'd like to say this means we're living in the here and now, but judging from the framed artwork that is positively littering the floors around here, and recalling the stories that go with the acquisition of each piece, I have to admit we're dragging as much history around with us as my folks did. It just won't be evident to anyone else.