Late night reading

Before heading off to bed last night, I reminded myself that I wanted to take a quick peek into a correspondence box I keep in our basement. I had noticed it the other day, but had been unable to allow myself the luxury of going through it while dealing with other, more pressing tasks. Saturday evenings are the perfect time to indulge in that sort of thing, so I brought the box upstairs around the same time my husband was preparing to hit the sack.

What I found was not entirely all expected. I had thought that I had a few letters in there, but not much more than that. Instead, I found a treasure trove of memorabilia that I had long since forgotten I ever received.

I found a letter sent to me by a college friend. He was almost apologetic in telling me I had to listen to his random ramblings as he talked about a philosophy book he had recently read. He talked about how as an artist, he was concerned that so many other artists succumb to depression and suicide. A few years out of college, that friend of mine died. It was unnerving to read his words about death knowing how soon after he penned them he joined the hereafter.

I found letters from my parents that were written to me at various other times when I was off at college. I found a Valentine's Day card from my mother that talked about what life was like at home when my childhood dog was sick, shortly before the dog's death. I found cards that my father had created using Calvin & Hobbes pictures he somehow conjured up on his computer in the days before the Internet turned into the sensation it is today. I found a card they must have forced my younger brother to sign, adding his signature to their desires to see their daughter home from college soon.

I found letters from my grandmother. I found a letter responding to one I had apparently sent her, where she described what life was like living in the 1930s. There was another letter from shortly after my elopement, where she wished my new husband and I well, and requested a picture of the two of us. There was a letter from her, thanking me for sending her a picture of my firstborn, and telling me she hoped she would be able to hold my beautiful baby girl one day. The letters showed a gradual decline in the steadiness of her hand, and stopped shortly thereafter. My grandmother is still alive, but has told me that writing is difficult for her these days, so those letters are likely to be the last ones I ever see in her handwriting.

I found a newspaper from the one-year anniversary of September 11th. I doubt very highly that I read it at the time, and I found myself unable to look through it last night. It served as a reminder to how close I came to losing my husband, who had been at the World Trade Center that fateful day, and lived to tell the tale.

I found Valentine's Day, Mother's Day, Anniversary, and other random cards both to and from my husband. There was the Mother's Day card he signed on behalf of our cat one year. There was the first birthday card I received from my eldest, again written by my husband from our not-quite-one-year-old. There were handmade cards from our two daughters, with handwriting both legible and illegible, depending on the year.

I found a few cards from my husband's grandmother, and written to me about my children. I remember saving them so my children would one day know their great-grandmother, who they probably do not even remember ever meeting, cared about them.

When I finally closed the lid on that box, I felt exhausted but replenished somehow. I cannot think of a better way to spend a lazy Saturday evening than to spend it walking down memory lane with a box full of old correspondence.