I am sitting in my corner. There is a meeting going on in the same room. I am awe struck by the letter I just heard read by a member of the group.
The person reading the letters was reading letters from her brothers (plural) who were POWs during World War 2.
She had the letters that had been waiting to be read for 70 years.
Her brothers had written them to her parents. They had never read them. They had been passed down to her after her parents passed.
The letters told of what they had survived in these camps, luckily they wound up in the same camp. They told of how their lives in the camps. One even went so far as to ask that their parents not tell anyone they were prisoners. They were ashamed of that fact.
I can’t imagine, not reading a letter for that long.
I can’t imagine how she felt when she read those letters in the privacy of her home, as I heard her voice crack as she read them to the group.
It was painful for her but she felt the need to share them.
We live in a day when hand written letters are a thing of the past for the most part. In a society where text messages and chat have replaced the days when you went to the mailbox and got a love letter. Where conversation, actual conversation eye to eye and face to face doesn’t happen on a daily basis.
I have a box of those letters at my home. They were written between my in-laws long before they were my in-laws. They lived in different towns and their only communication was letters.
They are written in pencil and they are starting to fade. They are in a closet. There is no one who they will matter to once I no longer walk on the Earthen sod.
I may, because I never have, sit down and read those letters. I never felt like I was supposed to, they are not my words.