My Dearest Love

When I lived in the city, I’d get the wrong mail sometimes. Bills to my neighbors, spam to previous tenants, and the occasional post card or hand written letter just mis-delivered. I typically passed it to my neighbor or tossed it in the outgoing box. I don’t think I could tell you a single detail of anything I received. They were easily forgotten.

But this letter.

I felt guilt creep up as I stared at the handwritten note, the envelope still clutched in my hand. This was not for me. I mean, it didn’t have a name of who should receive it, and the address was correct. I had seen the old aged envelope and opened it without a thought. And then I read it.

It started with “My dearest love.” I should have stopped there. I haven’t been anyone’s dearest love. I’ve had my flings, and occasional romantic partners. But not love. And definitely not the dearest. Curiosity had me continue to read. A list of a apologies for things that were missed. A missed opportunity for a first kiss under “the tree”. A missed moment to propose before “I left” An apology for not saying or doing many things. And then promises. He’d come back and he’s find a way. He’s sweep her feet. He’s buy her flowers. He’d make her happy. Movies tell of love letters, and I had one in my hands. It wasn’t beautiful, and there were words that had been scratched out, the grammar was questionable at best.

But the words were tinged with sadness and desperation and love. The letter had ended with “Yours Sam.” And I traced my fingers over his name and the bouquet of flowers he had messily drawn in a corner. I knew then. I had to deliver this letter. Somehow. The paper was weak, and I worried about folding it again, so I put it in a clear folder along with its envelope that had no return address. I placed it on my kitchen counter, grabbed a laptop and emailed a friend.

________________________________________

It took me a few hours to drive to the city, the refreshing trees and mountains breaking into valleys and highways. Eventually, I was turning down familiar streets and scanning for any available parking spots on the road. Eventually, I found a metered one. I grabbed my change, the envelope, locked my car and walked the few blocks to Mer’s cafe.

I spotted Kerry sitting at a table at the back immediately, I waved and stood in line. An unimpressed teenager took my tea order, rolling her eyes as I asked her to only do half boiling water and the rest tap. She wrote my name on a cup and I walked to the back.

Kerry stood immediately and shook my hand. “Welcome back to the city.”

I laughed. “Only for the day, I plan to drive back this evening.”

With furrowed eyebrows, Kerry sat and leaned her elbows on the table. “You seriously are going to drive 6 hours just for some letter?”

“You haven’t seen the letter.”

“Well?”

I handed it to her. I barely stopped myself from reacting as she pulled it out of the protective folder. Her eyes scanned the words quickly and I heard my name called. I walked over quickly, grabbed the steaming cup and sat down. Kerry was still reading, but she looked more interested than before. I took a sip and couldn’t help the gasp.

Kerry’s eyes shot up as I put the cup down. “Sorry, I just burnt my tongue.” Kerry went back to reading and I felt an ache. There was a time when everyone knew my order here and wouldn’t have forgotten the tap water. 

I wasn’t allowed a moment to be nostalgic as Kerry slipped the letter back into the folder and pulled out the envelope. 

“Layla. This postage stamp...” She pointed to the pastel pink stamp with a face on it. “It’s worth 2 cents.”

“So?”

“Layla. Stamps today are usually closer to like 75 cents. You CAN get 2 cent stamps, but you can’t send mail for 2.”

“I’m really sorry, I just am not following”

“Layla, this letter is old. Like. Old old. It’s going to be harder to find the person this was intended for.”

“But you sold me the house, can’t you just tell me who the previous homeowners were?”

“Layla, I’m telling you this letter is old. At least like 50 years or something. There could be ten if not twenty previous owners. I recommend finding someone who knows stamps, see if they can date it. Then come back, I can check who owned the house around the same time.”

“I really don't want to stay in the city...”

“You don’t have to. Just use the internet. I mean I definitely appreciate you coming down, and later I want to get your input on some development projects I have coming up. But I think that’s as far as you get with the letter today.

_________________________________________

It turns out there were a lot of stamp collectors on the internet. I guess I shouldn’t have been so surprised. It didn’t take long for me to find a discussion forum where people posted pictures of their stamps and others would help identify their worth. 

I took a picture of the faded stamp and posted it, saying that I wasn’t looking to sell it but just to date it. A few days later someone responded. They left a comment saying it was a specific stamp used toward the end of the second world war. Apparently, the faded face was John Addams. Well that was an easy date. 

I copied the information and sent it off to Kerry in an email. Anticipation flooded through me the whole day as I worked on my computer and ate dinner. But Kerry didn’t answer. I wasn’t sure I’d be able to sleep that night, I was so on edge. But I did. The morning crept by slowly and I felt like I was refreshing the page every ten seconds. Finally, a response. 

Apparently the house had been owned by a couple, Mr. and Mrs. Morrie. It was possible that Mr. Morrie was the one who wrote the letter, but I wanted to dig a bit more. I dug through some online archives and eventually found it was Mr. John Morrie. So not Sam. But I also found out that the Morries had a daughter. Susannah. 

Every moment I had free from work and chores I was digging through the internet trying to find her. But she must have led an unremarkable life, because I couldn’t seem to find anything about her. Kerry was also looking and I posted the question and information to another online forum. 

A month later, someone had found a newspaper article announcing the engagement of Ms. Susannah Morrie and a Mr. Jeremiah Locks. There were apparently a lot of Susannah Locks alive at the time. 

A few weeks later, someone found a eulogy for Mr. Locks. It was only a few years old, and it didn’t take long to find out his wife was still alive. She was in hospice care. It was awkward writing to her daughter and explaining the situation, but this had gone too far. I couldn’t just keep the letter. 

________________________________________

I met Mrs. Locks daughter outside the care facility. I was shocked that instead of a handshake she hugged me. But then she pulled back a moment later. “Sorry, it’s just. My mother has been... lethargic of late. But when I mentioned Sam’s name, she lit up. Come on, let’s go. She should be in her room right about now.”

As I checked into the hospice, I showed them the sealed lamination of the letter and envelope. Apparently, Mrs. Locks’ daughter had argued with them for weeks to find a way they would allow the letter into the facility. They worried about contamination and illness, and we had finally found this compromise. 

And then I was meeting her. Nearly a year had passed since I got the letter and I felt something in my gut as I finally handed the old woman the letter. She almost immediately teared.

“Oh Sam. My dearest love.” she caressed his name and then glanced up at her daughter. “Samantha, you were named after him. Did you know?”

Apparently not, as she sat heavily in a chair. “Did dad know?”

“Oh of course. Sam and your father were the best of friends. Went to war together, you know. He was the one who had to bring the news that Sam had died. Years later he finally grew the balls to actually confess his feelings." She laughed weakly, "He was shaking like a leaf. But...”

“You pulled him into a kiss.” Samantha laughed. “I never understood why it took him so long to tell you. He wouldn’t say why.”

The old woman tapped the letter. “It was out of respect for Sam.” She looked down at it again. “I think this might have been the last letter he wrote before...” As the daughter comforted her, I slipped out into the hallway to give them their space.

I leaned against a wall and smiled. It might have been just a mis-delivered letter, but months of work, new friendships, and a deeper appreciation for history had left me changed. Hopefully, for the better.