We wrote letters. Fast letters. Page upon page of urgently penned, tightly packed sentences, sharing, with each other, the minutiae of our daily lives. Written fast so as not to omit a single important detail. (It all seemed important then.) And slow letters. Handfuls of carefully chosen words, laced with love and sentiment, aching with loneliness and longing.
For four years, we wrote letters. Every day, every week, every month, save those precious intervals, scattered around the calendar, when you came home on leave, and we traded paper for conversation, and gave our weary calloused fingers a break.
We wrote letters, while you were fighting somewhere in the Pacific and I was expanding my horizons in our small town, learning to pay the bills and drive and cope on my own.
You came home in early 1946. A lifetime, it seemed, from when you left. Yet in spite of all of those letters between us, the bridge that spanned time and distance, we were both so different we barely knew one another.
We wrote letters. Unintentionally recorded our history in an attempt to hold on to our future. To us. That’s all in the past now.
I miss you.