For I Love Her So

The envelope was big and bulky, with my name and address written in an unfamiliar, loopy cursive scrawl. Curiosity got the better of me as I ripped it open.

Nancy is the last of my great aunts and the youngest sister of my maternal grandfather. She was born when my grandfather was 32 years old, so he was more like a father to her than a sibling. She is only 10 years old than her niece—my mother.

I last saw Aunt Nancy almost four years ago at the party my brothers and I hosted for our parents’ 40th wedding anniversary. It was the first time I officially met, and I was stunned at how much she looked like my grandfather. It had been 25 years since I last saw that face, with its dark complexion, high cheekbones and lined forehead. She still had a thick head of coal black hair with a tiny touch of gray, just like my grandfather did in his 70s. I couldn’t help but stare, and she couldn’t help but notice.

Aunt Nancy was very kind and gracious to me, answering the many questions I had about my grandfather. He died when I was six, so I had many. “He would have been proud of you,” she said, squeezing my hand before she left for the evening. I fought back tears and wished for time I would never have.

There was no contact with Aunt Nancy until the bulky envelope showed up in the mail. Inside I found a bundle of letters tied with a red ribbon and a note from my aunt. She found these letters while cleaning out her attic and wanted me to have them.

These weren’t just any old letters. They were love letters, written by my grandfather to my grandmother, and there were dozens and dozens of them. How nice, I thought. Pa wrote Nana letters when they were dating, or “courting” as he called it. But as I paged through the large pile, I quickly realized the letters went beyond the courtship stage. There was a letter written on their wedding day. One written the day after my mother, his only child, was born. And many, many more in between—not to mention after that. He wrote letters to my Nana literally until the day before he died.

I organized the pile chronologically and sat down to read. Some letters were long, while others were short. I noticed a pattern. Pa always dated his letters in the upper right hand corner of the page in the European way with the date first, then the month and finally the year. He always called Nana “My dearest Zelma” and always mentioned the weather. They were always signed “All my love, Deacon.” I still do not know how he got that nickname.

He apparently traveled during their marriage, because those letters were longer and more detailed. The letters written from home were more like love notes, but they were still beautiful nonetheless. His language was poetic in its simpleness, and there was nothing sappy or embarrassing about his prose. His love for my grandmother leaped off the page, even when he wrote about the most unromantic things, such as planting tomatoes in the garden or hitting my mother’s dog with the car for the “umpteenth time.”

As I read, I started to get a picture of a life unfamiliar to me. I laughed out loud when I realized he was writing about me: “Our granddaughter has your hair color and your stubbornness.” I laughed even harder when I realized the letter was written during the weeks I stayed with my grandparents after the birth of my youngest brother. I desperately wanted a sister and cried with disappointment during these weeks. I obviously annoyed my grandfather, but he never let me see it. I just remember lots of hugs and many new Barbie dolls.

My grandfather eventually lost his voice to cancer, so he depended on the written word even more. He tended to reminisce in the letters written during his illness, while worrying about how my grandmother would cope after he was gone. But in the end, he knew she would be fine because she was strong. He was right.

The final letter in the pile wasn’t addressed to my grandmother. It was written to my mother just days before my grandfather lost his long battle with throat cancer. He ended it with these words: “Take care of your mother, for I love her so.”

My tears stained the old pages. I had the answers I was looking for.