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© Marc Virata

How hard would it have been to say some kinder words instead… Patty Griffin

Every now and then when I find myself alone on a Sunday afternoon I settle into my favorite wingback chair and place a jewel-encrusted box in my lap. In a ritualistic fashion, I reach inside and withdraw a bundle of letters held fast by a pale pink satin ribbon, untie it carefully and gently press open the pages of the first read.

Some of the letters are penned on elegant gold-edged stationary while others are on thin blue airmail sheets. They are manifestations of a sweet, naïve young love. Within the pages are poems of shameless yearning, devotion and imaginings of a world where all things seemed possible.

My fingers trace the tender words whose power has not paled over the years on reading after reading, rather they pull at my heartstrings more now than on first consideration. I truly appreciate the sentiments, knowing how rare and lovely a feeling it is to feel valued, prized – even worshipped.

I wonder how different my life today would have been if the spell of a particular suitor had not been broken. But broken it was and it is a pity that the lovely words memorialized here had been confined to these pages alone.

© Joan Currie – My Love Letters

Model – Lauren DiMarco