CHAPTER 67
There, behind the rock, was an opening—a large one—and it was absolutely stuffed with envelopes. I stuck my hands in and touched them, in case I was imagining it all, but, when my fingertips ran over that familiar surface,I knew. I grabbed a bunch and pulled them out. I looked into the hole. There were more letters. I pulled some more out, and there were more behind those.
“How many are there?” I asked.
I reached in again and pulled out another huge wad. Another one, another, another . . . Mike and I looked at each other in total disbelief. I dropped the massive pile of letters down on the floor and looked at them.
“I don’t believe this,” Mike said, reaching into the hole and taking out yet another pile.
“There are . . . are . . .” I couldn’t believe I was about to say this—“hundreds!” I looked at Mike; he was pulling letters out so quickly, now, and just dropping them to the floor as he went. When he’d finished, we both looked at the huge pile in front of us. We must have stared at them for ages before either of us knew what to do. Slowly, I lowered myself on to the cold floor and sat down in front of the letters.
“They all have dates on the front,” I said. “Why would they? Why would you only put the date on the front of the letter, nothing else?” I asked.
Mike crouched next to me and began leafing through the letters. “It’s definitely my grandmother’s writing,” he said.
I nodded. “But why the dates?”
He raised one to his face and looked at it closely, and then looked at me over the letter. “You put the dates on when you want them read in chronological order,” he said.
I looked down at the letters and started moving them around with my hands. “Where do you start?”
“Don’t you always start at the beginning?” he asked.
“Depends on how you want to tell a story.” I picked up one of the letters and read the date out. “The eighteenth of June, 2018.”
“Oh my God.” Mike looked at me. “That’s a week before she died.”
I stared at the letter in my hands. I had no idea what was contained inside it, but I could feel that it was important. I could sense it. I slowly passed it over to Mike and he took it between his fingers. I shivered as a cold breeze rushed in through the open door.
“Here.” Mike pulled his jacket off and wrapped it around my shoulders.
“Thanks.” I smiled at him and held the jacket close. “Read it,” I said, indicating the letter in his hands.
He looked up at me nervously, but started nodding. He opened the letter, and then, slowly, he started to read.
Dearest Abe,
I think this might well be my last letter to you. I’m feeling very tired and, to be honest, I would welcome the rest. But, as I come to the end of this all, it’s given me an opportunity to reflect on my life.
I haven’t had a bad life. I had four wonderful children and more grandchildren than I could ever have hoped for, although I confess that I do have my favorite. My grandson, Michael, who sits by my bedside every night to see if I’m still breathing. He doesn’t know that I know he’s there. I can see he’s exhausted during the day, although he tries to hide it. I feel like I’ve become such a burden, but he will never admit it, and I can’t wait for the moment that he gets a full night’s sleep again.
Mike couldn’t hold it back. He put the letter down and covered his face as his shoulders began to shake. I could hear the muffled sounds of soft crying and I reached over to him and wrapped an arm around his shoulders. He didn’t resist my comfort. Instead, his head fell on to my shoulder and he buried his face in the crook of my neck. I lifted my hand and placed it softly on the side of his face, cradling it, like I had a few nights ago. We stayed like that for a while, until he finally pulled away. He wiped his face with the back of his hands.
“It wasn’t a burden,” he said quietly.
“I know,” I replied.
“I can’t read this.” He passed the letter over to me and I felt my breath catch in my solar plexus.
“Are you . . . sure?” I asked. This letter was so personal, intimate, and letting me read it out loud, well, it seemed like a gesture I wouldn’t ever know how to repay. It was such an honest gesture. He simply nodded and I raised the letter up to my face and started reading.
Of course, I’ll miss them. I’ll miss them all. But there is one person who I’ll miss the most, when I am gone. I have prayed every morning that I will see you again, but, of course, when I look at all these letters I’ve written over the years, I know that will never happen.
I knew, many, many years ago, that you would never find these letters, but I kept writing them. Over the years, they became more for me than for you. I write them for you, knowing that you will never receive them, but it makes me feel better. I feel that, in some small way, I am still communicating with you. And I need to feel like that, like I need air to breathe.
Of course, I hope you find these one day, but I’ve long given up hope you will. What sustained me through these years was your letters to me. I read them so many times that I memorized them, and then I sewed them into that bag you gave me. I didn’t need them anymore, because, when I closed my eyes every night, I imagined that you were reading them to me. I would try to imagine your voice. But, I confess, it has gotten harder and harder to hear your voice in my head. I can almost still hear it, but it’s fading fast and I don’t want to live for one single day on this earth without being able to hear your voice in my head anymore.
My husband was a good, kind man, and he loved me very much. But I was never able to give him what he deserved, and, for that, I will always feel guilty. I think I was able to give him a part of my heart, the part that grew to love him in some way. Waking up next to him every morning wasn’t a chore; it was something I came to enjoy. He was a companion, and I respected him and cared for him, but he never got my full heart. That has always been for you.
