Trunk

Every now and then, Herself visits a trunk that resides in the corner of the closet in the master bedroom. It is heavy and nondescript, and rarely opened. There is no hint whatsoever about the contents it holds. Lift the lid, and you will find a jumble of hand-written correspondence. Letters. Cards. Pictures. Letters. More letters. The occasional pressed flower, scrap of fabric. Small works of art. A ring box. Still more letters.

For over three years, Herself and her Beloved lived in separate states. They had dated a mere month before he moved away. For the first year, there were 2,000 miles between them. For the second and third years, there were merely 300 miles. You'll recall that this was in Days of Yore, long before e-mail and text. There was the telephone, and the U.S. Postal Service.

Herself's habit was to write to her Beloved just about every day. Sometimes the letters were short; sometimes they were long. Either way, it was always an act of love to make those pilgrimages to the mailbox. Her Beloved wrote back - not nearly as frequently, but that did not matter. In fact, it made his letters perhaps more valuable, since she knew it took him more effort to write. Each letter was saved, and when they finally were married, all of the letters were placed in the trunk together.

Three years' worth of love and longing and plans and dreams, all within the trunk. To visit the trunk is to find hope anew, and to remind Herself and her Beloved of all that is yet to come.

A successful marriage requires falling in love many times, always with the same person. - Mignon McLaughlin