Love Letters

When I was young, even into my teen years, I used to go through my mother’s hidden things. For some reason I thought grown-ups would have something interesting stashed away, hidden from prying eyes. Adults were so mysterious. They had to be more interesting than they seemed. What was the point of growing older if it were as dull and tedious as every adult I knew made it seem.

My mother certainly had secrets. I did not realize the significance at the time of finding wine bottles hidden amongst her things.  As a child I thought it the natural place adults would keep multiple alcohol bottles behind their shoes in the closet. However, there were even deeper secrets. 

Once, in my rummaging, I found a medium size heart shaped box. It was nothing special. It looked like the type of box that something else interesting had come in and now was being repurposed for storage. Akin to the cookie tins being used for sewing notions. The heart box was thick cardboard, patch worked with colors of pink and red and white. Clearly a holdover from some cheap valentine. But the box was surprisingly sturdy and spacious. 

I had found many boxes before. Some with recipes or indecipherable notes. I did not think much of this one, except for the unusual shape. A heart does not store as neatly with the other boxes. It is more obtuse and cumbersome. 

I opened the heart shaped box with casual indifference, not expecting much. Maybe some notions. Old bobbles forgotten about. But since I had found it hidden, I just had to check and make sure. I saw that it was full of paper. Folded lined paper with blue and black scribbles visible on all parts. 

I took out the top item, a folded letter. “Dear Judy…” It was a letter to my mother. I still did not think too much of what I had found. My mother was of the age when letter writing was still one of the main forms of communication. 

I didn’t actually read the contents of the letter, instead skipping straight to the signature to see if I know the sender.

My deepest Love,

Paul

I had a moment of pause and reflection. Did I know a Paul? I could not place the name with anyone associated with my mother, especially with anyone who would express their deepest love. 

I looked through the box a little closer. There were probably about 40 letters stuffed into the box. Each had the same handwriting. I picked up a few from the top. Each addressed to my mother, Judy. Each signed with various forms of affection from someone named Paul.

My father’s name is John.

I read as few of the letters on the top of the pile. They all offered sweet, tender platitudes. Banal accounts of life intermixed with sweet sayings and thoughts. They were the definition of a romantic love letter. A little life interspersed with overly lovey missives. All included some refrain to the effect that when Paul could once again be with his true love Judy, all would be right and good in the world. 

Clearly these were written when two, in hindsight, star crossed lovers were separated from each other. I read each of the letters. It took hours over a few days. Each offering a glimpse into my mother as a woman in love, or at least loved by someone named Paul. 

From my calculations, the letters were written after my mother graduated from college until well into her relationship with the man who would become my father. Years. The love letters covered years. 

I had never heard of Paul. My mother never mentioned him. But he clearly had been of some importance. The correspondence was full of intimate details and declarations of love. This was not a part-time, fair weather relationship. She had keep the letters all these years and it was evidence of something deep. 

But all I had was Paul’s letters. My mother had not kept copies of her letters back and forth to Paul. Paul was in love. It seemed to be reciprocated, but that was not in evidence. Just Paul’s devotion to my mother over years and distance. 

It took many secret trips to the box of letters for me to consume all the content and start to understand. Anytime my mother was away, I would immerse myself in her long lost love. I read the letters from Paul and slowly began to piece together the timeline of their relationship. The overarching theme was of devotion and the love Paul had of my mother.

When I finally put the parts together, I found what I thought was the last letter. It was shorter than the others. Still with the same flowing handwriting, but somehow it seemed more formal, more distant than the others. It talked of ever lasting love, but ended somewhat different. 

“My love. My true and only love. I know now you are in a place where there is no return to me, only forward into your new life with a new life in you. I envy your state and only wish it had been of my doing. But that is not to be. Please know that I will always be here for you even if a thousand miles or a thousand years separate us. Thank you for giving me the time I had. My deepest love, Paul.”

That was the last letter. At least in the box. I never was brave enough to let my mother know that I had found the letters. I never asked if she responded to that last letter or if it simply was enough to know that even though she was pregnant with me, she still had an eternal love out there in the world. 

We can alwayS wonder, What If? Or, What could have been? But all I know is that my mother had a love named Paul. He may not have been her physical soul mate, but he was important enough for my mother to keep and hide his love letters in a heart shaped box. And I am comforted now in knowing that knowledge of their love, even if secret and elusive, lives on in me.