It’s been almost 3 weeks since I’ve been reading my Grandfather’s letters. He passed away 8 years ago, I don’t remember who found them or the exact moment when we came across the old and beautifully torn up shoe box containing the jewel and magic that makes up his Love letters to my Grammy. But I do remember saying “Please let me have these! These are now mine.”
They sat on my old desk from high school, in my school girl bedroom in Massachusettes for almost 5 years. Every time I would travel home to Boston from LA and stay at my parents, I would stay in my old room, complete with pop poms and prom picture, collages from camp friends, and oh yes, a water bed. It was always like a jolt into the past coming home and staying in that room, the room, frozen in time, and me…different.
The letters. The letters stood on my desk and vibrated with an energy that was almost too precious to touch. I just…looked at them. At the box.
I don’t remember when, or the moment that I flew the box of letters from Massachusettes to LA. I have no recollection of packing them, or bringing them in a carry on bag onto the plane. All I can remember is 2 years ago when I was living in Venice, I had the box on my bed and for the first time, I started taking them out. One by one.
They were love letters. Poetry. Words from my Grandfather to my Grandmother, dated back to 1945. They met in Boston while he was on a weekend break from the Service, and they fell in love over letters during World War II.
I read one. Two. Three. Tears down my eyes, for the words, the words of LOVE, were words that felt lost. Something that I personally experienced was I was young, and something that I only now see in movies and in very few couples that I come across.
These words were coming out of my Grandfather? Yes yes, of course they were. The Papa who I loved so so much. The Papa who made me laugh all the time and taught me how to ride a bike. The Papa who would play the game every time I came over to visit their house, and would pretend to look all over the house for me while I was hiding in the closet. The Papa who met my Grammy in 1945 and fell madly, deeply, passionately in love with her. They made my mother. Who in turn made me. And every fiber of my being is infused with love, passion, romance. Of course he wrote these letters.
It was almost too much. I stopped reading them and started lovingly putting them in chronological order. I would look at them. Feel their energy. And something, something deep inside said “These letters are going to lead you to your Soulmate.” I told a few close friends of these words from my intuition, but not many. Every time I would look at the box of Love letters, I would feel “THIS is what I want. THIS is what I’ve been waiting for!”
And then….I stopped reading them. I don’t remember why. It must not have been time. I closed up the shoe box and put it in my pajama drawer, for 2 years.
And now….it’s time. I wake up every morning, make a blended cup of coffee, and read one letter. I hold the letter. I feel my Papa’s energy. I slowly open it, trace my finger and heart over the words “My Dearest Martha….” And I read.
I started photocopying the letters and mailing them, one by one to my Grandma. She’s still alive, 93, healthy as can be. And now, after 73 years, one by one in the mail, she’s receiving love letters again, from Bill. Her beloved. Her Soulmate.
These writings are the journey of the letters. What they mean to me, how they are affecting my life, my Grandma’s life, and all those that they touch.
This blog is about the journey…of love.