I’m writing about seasons. I’m writing about ghosts. This is the first in a series.
The barn was dreary and dusty. We had to focus on the job at hand: boxes upon boxes of office supplies, files, desks, cabinets, typewriters. Dust upon nasty dust consumed us on this downsizing Saturday.
A hillside fire was ablaze with discarded items. We emptied drawers. I noticed the pile. Brad had kept them: Love letters. Ghosts. Remembrances.
Brad and I were weary and crabby. We don’t work well together. Two managers: a dangerous combination.
Brad plopped into his lawn chair: a fireside monitoring station. I kneeled down on the grassy slope and dumped the drawer. Love notes fluttered out like confetti.
Blue, yellow, pink -white envelopes with long addresses and “Personal” marked across the front scattered on the ground. —Thirty plus years of love notes. Brad had kept them in his desk drawer. -Who’d have thought?
For you, my friends, who are “seasoned” couples, long since acquainted and quietly comfortable, love notes aren’t on your radar. They sure aren’t on ours. But there, in a flowery pile at my feet, lay my heart. I had to share. I grabbed a few and began to read aloud.
Brad didn’t stir from his fireman’s throne. I read on. He remained silent.
“I haven’t changed, you know,” I finally said to Brad as I brushed a gray hair from my forehead. Then I said in a quiet murmur (not my usual tone), “I still love you so much.”
My husband and I: a Fall Couple of 36 years, sat quietly side-by side in the Indian Summer afternoon. He remained in his chair, I relaxed on the ground. We gazed at the fire which lapped up the last remnants of old furniture, business papers, envelopes and trash.
Indian summer Saturday was our last touch of warmth before the cold closed in. Brad and I had work to do.
For a shimmering moment, however, We savored a day and a pile of love notes. Both were warm and golden.