They were written with care, the cursive letters so politely placed on beautiful ivory parchment. Even as I touch them, a feeling of love stirs deep within my soul. It has been so long since they were written, too long since that same feeling had enveloped me, too long.
After he left, I still kept the letters, now in a larger envelope, not tied with a pink ribbon or scented by a dried rose, but in a Manila envelope marked “private”. I wonder after I’m gone, will anyone read them or respect the privacy notice and discard them instead? This is something you wonder about as you sit by yourself, pondering over old missives. Should I dispose of them myself, should I try to forget what they meant so long ago? I don’t think that is possible.