Sometimes I really do think I was born in the wrong era. I yearn to be a heroine in a Jane Austen novel. Fastened into a corset, wrapped up in yards of silk and a bonnet- clutching a finely written love letter from a lover on an adventure, but aching to return to me.
But I was born in the late 70's. Meaning, that the majority of my adult ‘love letters’ have come in the form of emails. I know this is partly my fault (I tend to email people before calling, or actually- gasp!- seeing them), but last night while I embarked on the dreaded tasks of cleaning up my email account, I couldn’t help but feel sad about it all.
My grandkids will not inherit dusty stacks of ink stained declarations of love wrapped up in faded ribbon. There will be no discoveries of who I loved at 18 years, or 22, 25, or 30. There will be no tangible evidence of the loves I’ve held and the loves I’ve lost. And in ways that I’m sure I will articulate better when I’m older, this makes me feel like I’ve done a disservice- not only to those I would want to share the letters with, but to myself.
As I allowed myself a bumpy trip down memory lane re-reading all the emails that I’ve amassed over the years, I found myself surprised at what I found. I had forgotten how lovely love could be. How earnest a man in love could sound, what surprises could unfold when I clicked to open an email. I found words that made me cry, words that made me laugh- words that took me back to a time when I felt smarter, but was far more foolish. I found words so… bare, so private I felt like an intruder reading them, though they were addressed to me. I found myself wistful- not for the man, but for the moment when a few short sentences would say everything I needed and wished to hear.
I poured myself a drink and sat back, staring at pages and pages of sweet notes crammed with inside jokes, long letters filled with promises of things to come and messages short on punctuation but long on thought. I realized that if I wanted to, I could print each one out, wrap them tightly and store them away, computer print-outs on pristine white paper never touched by anyone but me. Or I could let them sit in my inbox, a reminder of what is over. Or, I could delete them all, and start new. And promise myself that my Los, my love would be given a pen.
I deleted them all. I deserve the dusty stacks, touched by his hands as well as mine. I want that. And I know one day, my grandkids will too.
I’m off to find a bonnet.
