She reads his letters, over and over again. His gawky handwriting, the cancelation marks and the blotting of pale blue ink. She observes the impressions his words have made on the once crisp paper. Opened and folded a thousand times already, the letter is etched in her memory.
It begins with a conventional joke and extends to raw, unrestrained expression. It’s not sophisticated, of course. But she holds it close to her heart.
That’s what she loves about handwritten letters. Raw, untouched, natural and crisp. Every word serving a purpose, every cancelation mark portraying a dismissed thought.
As she carefully folds the paper and hides it in her envelope, she is welcomed back to her pitiful reality… Her hopes diminished and her spirit, dead; she preserves the only memory of her late husband.