Letters

By George Michael Brown

The year was 1988. My mother had passed away the previous December, my father twenty-seven years before that. I was cleaning out their house, getting it ready to sell; the house I grew up in.

I was removing items out of a small room in the basement, hidden behind the furnace, about the size of a walk-in closet. The room contained the incinerator and water heater on one side, shelving on the other. The shelves were uneven, but solid, my father’s touch.

Stored on these shelves were Christmas decorations, some coffee pots, assorted knickknacks, and back in the corner, covered in dust and webs, was a box, roughly the size of a box that a pair of boots would come in. 

I brought the box outside, probably for the first time it saw light in years. I brushed the dust away, and written in pencil was the word, “letters”, large enough not to be missed. I stored the dust-covered box in my basement and forgot about it. 

The box sat on the shelf, collecting dust once again, until, six years later.  I carefully removed the heavy-duty tape that sealed the top.

My mind raced; what sort of letters were so important to be hidden away and kept all these years? I slowly removed the top. Letters, hundreds of letters, from my father to my mother, from my mother to my father. The letters were written from the time he was in Army basic training to when he was stationed overseas during the war. What words were contained in these letters? What thoughts? What emotions?

I carefully opened a letter my father wrote. The first thing I noticed was his beautiful handwriting. I read a couple of paragraphs, then went on to another letter.

The next letter was from my mother, once again, excellent handwriting. As I read portions of the letter, I realized the love they had for each other, how they missed each other.  

I wanted to give my parents the honor they deserved.  They probably hid these letters away with the intention of reading them again on some special occasion.

I thought that reading the letters in their entirety would be sacrilegious. I concluded the best way was to set them on fire. I brought the box of letters to the fire pit. Their thoughts were embellished in these letters almost eighty years ago.  

Before gently placing  envelopes into the flames, I would open them to see if anything was included. Among the more precious items were birthday cards, Christmas Cards, and anniversary cards. My heart was touched. 

I set fire to the first of many letters. The fire slowly and methodically devoured each letter and word. I watched the smoke rise. I tossed more letters onto the fire; each one passing the flame to the other. 

Tenderly holding the beautiful words contained in the envelopes, I could feel the love. Those words, the thoughts of two people missing each other, were now contained in the smoke rising toward the heavens. It dissipated as it ascended, until finally becoming invisible, as if swallowed up by the heavens above.

Their words, once imprisoned in the letters, are now back with mom and dad from where they came.