Old Love Letters

5358500730_1b0b3d16f6_zShe filled an empty shoe box
with all his old love letters.
She tied it up in yellow ribbon
to hold them all together.
Sometimes when I’d visit,
she’d take them from the shelf
and one by one she’d read to me
the words of love he’d left.
Then with trembling hands,
she’d return each one to its place.
As she caressed the satin ribbon,
a smile would touch her face.
I was only a child back then,
and could not comprehend
the meaning of the phrases
or how long she had treasured them.
Recently, those old letters
fluttered across my mind.
Suddenly I wanted very much
to read them line by line.
She’d been gone for quite a while,
her belongings scattered about.
I was stunned when I discovered
they had thrown “that old box” out.
There was no room for “all that stuff—
just a bunch of musty ol’ papers.”
So, they burned them every one,
her box of his love letters.
I wish I could have saved them,
I’ve regretted it ever since.
Her name was Emma, and his was Ernest.
They were my mother’s parents.
Anita Stubbs

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My House of Many Rooms

I am a private person, but need a place to publish my writings, which have accumulated over the years.   I am in the autumn of my life, and feel the need to preserve some of what I have written in forms of poetry, short stories, and articles.  I have written one novel and now am working on my second one. I live quietly with my husband of 57 years, as of this coming November, in Texas.  My ancestors first came to Texas prior to the Civil War.  Other than the five or so years when we moved out of state, I have lived my life here. Anything more you may wish to know about me, you can hopefully gather from my writings, as far as my values, my character, and my impressions of humanity -- in as much and as far as I have experienced it, or imagined it.

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