Two shoeboxes, one stacked on top of the other, sit on the top shelf in the back of the basement closet. Each is filled to the brim with love letters, written more than 18 years ago when Brad (who is now my husband) and I were first dating. He lived in Minnesota, I lived in Massachusetts, and we wrote to each other once a week, sometimes more. It was the early ’90s, pre-email. The letters are hand-written on lined paper torn from spiral-bound notebooks and legal pads. I saved every one.
Even after I married the man who wrote me two shoeboxes full of letters, the correspondence kept coming. Not only for birthdays and anniversaries and other special occasions, but for any old reason. Or for no reason at all.
And then the letters stopped.