Every drawer and box in the attic had to be gone through.
Xanthic shading edged all of the old letters, paper delicately thin and dry.
Purple ribbons neatly tied up packets of family stories, sorted by year, by family, by country.
Evelyn had only known her grandmother, white haired and silent, and was told that letter writing ‘like your grandmother did faithfully’ was a lost art.
Cleaning out the attic, Evelyn had come upon the small box of letters and was hesitant to open it.
Touching the slim tarnished key in the tiny lock, then grasping it gently, she turned it til she felt a tiny click, startling when the lid popped open.
A quick look over her shoulder, despite being the only remaining family member, was reflexive and childlike as she opened the first letter.
Tracing her grandmother’s spidery writing in a penmanship that was as long gone as letter writing, Evelyn felt a connection with a past that she had never known.
Intervening miles had prevented her from talking with her grandmother except on the telephone and then only about day to day happenings
Opening the first letter, she read “My darling Josephine - I received the warm socks that still carry the scent of lavender you love and I can feel the touch of your hands.”
Naively, Evelyn had only ever thought of her grandparents as always having been old, even though from pictures, she knew differently.
Smiling, she carefully tucked her grandfather's letter away, took the box home with her to learn more about the young couple that became her grandparents.
“To send a letter is a good way to go somewhere
without moving anything but your heart.”
~ Phyllis Theroux
