We’ve got new furnitures moving in the house, thus things kept at the back of closets got a breath of fresh air.
While cleaning up this morning, saved letters, typewritten and handwritten, postcards and birthday cards, I’ve read their contents.
Most of the letters were between my parents. Before they got married and when they were, and when they were expecting me. There were even birthday cards for myself, back when I haven’t thought of reading yet.
They (my parents) really were expecting me. I’m a ’93 baby, for starters. But I came across this letter, from the year ’91. It was written by my Mommy, but signed with my name. My name is nowhere near my Mom’s name. Except for the first letter, and even that is from her nickname.
Among the pile were letters unsent. Finished but never got to the post office. How can I feel sorry about that? I get to keep them. I don’t remember her voice anymore. I try to, but I know it’s not the same, what she really sounded like and what I hear in my head.
Putting two and two together, Mommy was having doubts before about Dad. Yes, she was thankful for the attention, affection, the love that Dad was giving her. But the doubts were there. Doubts if they could work out a relationship. It’s because my Mom’s older than Dad, a letter from her says so.
One postscript in a random letter by Mom to Dad, I shall remember from this day forward: “I love you, but God loves you more.”
The papers have grown old with time, but the heart and sincerity in each is as young as it ever was.