Hope Chest

My Dearest Love,

The house is quiet once more.

Joe is off on his bicycle to meet David at the bagel joint. Kate went running. She's pissed at me because I took the car away for 24-hours for missing her curfew time last night. I also have been on her case about getting a job. There is work out there, but she is not interested in working at the places that have been suggested. I don't know where she gets the money to do what she does.

The weather finally broke yesterday. After a week of temps that flirted with the century mark and humidity's to match, a front moved through slowly yesterday that dropped both readings back into the comfortable range and we wound up watching Kate play her last "official" soccer game of the summer under clear, cool conditions last night.

I spent the morning today reading the paper, doing water testing, raking and spraying the dog run next to the garage, and clearing the ever growing weeds out of the path that goes around it. After taking a shower, I paused to cool off a bit while I surveyed our bedroom. I decided to move the heavy quilt off of the cedar chest at the foot of the bed and store it till needed later in the year. After I lifted it off the chest and put it aside, I open the lid of the chest and gazed at the little shelf that rises with the lid where you kept a bunch of your mementos.

I have never closely examined them before. I knew that you were sensitive about them and never encouraged me to be too curious. Today however, I wanted to look closer.

I found your student ID from the Sorbonne and a date book from when you must have been about Kate's age. There were lots of old photos from your junior and senior high days, included some of your old boyfriends. Was that why you never wanted me to look there?

I knelt on my knees by the side of the bed and slowly went through part of the treasure trove. I had to be careful not to drip sweat on the old pictures and clipped newspaper articles. I slowly unfolded notes that look like they were passed to you in secret down the rows of desks in school when the nuns had their backs turned to you. The paper was dry and brittle. The words young and juvenile. Just the sort of thing that I might have done for my sweetheart in my early teens. Some of what dripped onto the bedspread was not sweat, and I had to stop and carefully put the little treasures away and close the lid. I cannot take to much of you at any one time these days. These were your memories, not mine. I am only a voyeur for this period of your life - a girl, a thin young thing with long dark hair and a big smile. How different from the love I knew.

Yours Always,

D.