The old book was in my hands as I sat next to my grandfather’s bed. The pages had the scent of time and dust, as though they had been anticipating this moment as long as he had.
Grandpa whispered, his hazy eyes looking out of the room, maybe into the past, “I used to read to you.” The weight of memories and years that had passed too quickly was evident in his voice.
I squeezed his hand in response and said, “And now I read to you.”
A gentle grin pulled at his lips’ corners. Indeed. Life tends to come full circle.
It was an ancient leather-bound novel that he hadn’t worked on in sixty years. He told me that it had been a gift, but he never got around to reading it. It had become too difficult, too demanding, and finally too late. But now that his vision was totally gone, he wanted to finally feel the words.
After almost an hour of reading, I was halfway through a page when an odd occurrence occurred. From between the covers, a little, yellowed envelope dropped and landed on his blanket-covered lap.
I picked up the envelope carefully and said, “Grandpa, there’s a letter in here.”
His fingers twitched slightly as he stiffened. His voice was scarcely heard as he murmured, “That… that can’t be.”
The borders of the letter were ragged but undamaged, and it was sealed. The paper was thin and delicate, as though it had been waiting for someone to discover it, kept in its hiding spot. I paused, then turned to face him. “May I open it for you?”
As he swallowed, his throat bobbed. “Please.”
I unfurled the letter by sliding my finger under the fragile seal, being cautious not to rip it. Although the ink had faded, it was still readable.
I said, “March 4, 1963.” out loud.
Grandpa took a deep breath. He gripped the blanket more tightly.
I went on:
“My beloved William,”
I put down my book and gave him a quick look. His visage was caught in a mixture of shock and something else, something deeper, and he sat still.
I continued after clearing my throat.
“I need you to know the truth, even though I doubt you’ll ever read it. Since the first day I laid eyes on you, I have loved you. And for years, unable to speak the words out, I have held that love inside of me. However, I am forced to go at this point, and I cannot stand to do so without telling you something that I have never had the guts to say before.
As I read, my hands began to shake. Grandpa’s breath was erratic and he was trembling.
“I awaited your arrival. I awaited your attention. However, you never did. And it’s too late now. I’m going out tomorrow and won’t be returning. I needed you to know, even if I don’t expect you to feel the same way. You will always be a part of my heart. Farewell, my dear.
There was only one initial on the letter.
“Always yours, M.”
The air was heavy with unsaid silence. My grandfather’s hard, shallow breathing was audible to me.
Finally, he murmured, “M.”
“Who was she?” Gently, I inquired.
A strained sigh escaped his lips. “Margaret.”
As he uttered her name, his lips quivered. She was my closest companion. The person who knew me the best. I had no idea. His voice broke. “I had no idea she loved me.”
I took a deep breath. “Have you loved her before?”
He seemed to be viewing something I couldn’t see because his eyes were now far away. “I loved her in the same way that you love someone you believe will be there forever.” I believed she would never leave since she was always there. However, she did. I was never able to figure out why. He gave a headshake. “Up until now.”
In startled stillness, I sat. The past had just been rewritten by a love letter that had been lost for sixty years in the pages of a forgotten book.
A little later, he said again, but with a softer tone. “Do you think she ever stopped loving me, or what?”
The letter’s fading ink and the shaky words of someone who had once poured their heart out onto paper in the vain hope that their love would be heard caught my attention.
“No,” I replied. “She probably never did.”
Grandpa closed his eyes and placed the letter against his chest.
He grinned for the first time in a long time, the sort that says, “I remember now,” rather than the kind that quickly disappears. I get it.
And perhaps—just possibly—that was sufficient.
There are still unwritten love stories. Some are concealed among the pages, awaiting the ideal opportunity to be discovered. What are your thoughts? Have you ever learned something surprising about someone’s past that altered your perception of them? Please like and comment on this post! 💌✨
