Today I pulled out a letter encased in a thin yellow envelope, and with shaking hands I read it, though not for the first time, for by now it’s faded and worn. Written in royal blue ink, it’s pages are slightly wrinkled at the edges. “My beautiful, beautiful baby,” it says. The words are a gentle balm to my heart, a caress felt through a piece of paper; It is precious to me.
It was sent from a woman in my past, a past that has played apart in my future. “I hope you understand that I love you,” she says, and I do. Love is an action word. The letter faintly smells of old paper, with some sentences written as if the hand that held the pen trembled. I can picture the frightened girl of fifteen pouring out her burdened soul, and it makes it all the more dear to me. Some may say it is a letter of justification or even declaration, I do not think it is any of these things. I think it’s just a reason, so I would know that why, like that letter, I was sent away. The letter’s fare was a postage stamp, my fare was a piece of paper relinquishing rights. The letter, an indelible and papery kiss goodbye.
As I near the end of the letter, a sentence that always catches my attention and brings a sad smile to my faces says, “Please never forget that I love you and will never forget you…God bless you darling.” And thanks to that letter, in my heart I’ve always know that to be true.