Love Letters On The Fire

Going back in time and letting go to move forward

Dear Reader,

If someone were to ask me what my favorite time of day is, my first pick wouldn’t typically be the morning. Not because I’m not an early riser or request no questions before coffee, but rather because I relish the wind down. I delight in the pink wash of the sky at the day’s end, lighting the candle when the sun has dipped below the tree line and the house becomes dim, collecting ingredients on the counter and dreaming up a meal with what is there, the slow chop, stir and simmer, watching the cats compete for their turn to nestle into the perfectly carved-out cradle of the warm stone beside our little house.

Lately though, since moving here, I have learned to love the mornings. The large windows and honest light wake us early and this week, as the sun has finally returned after a long month of inconsistent presence, I drag the outdoor rocking chair into the sun path and complete my assimilation into the world from there.

The other morning with a mug in one hand, I thumbed through my email inbox — not my recommended way to start the day but nonetheless, like I’m sure you are too, I am guilty of a morning scroll. Working with one hand, I accidentally sent a selection of emails into an unintended folder, leading me to the all mighty All Mail section. As a prideful inbox gleaner, I was shocked to see thousands of junk emails dwelling here, and in my new-day high, I selected all and hit delete. The second shock of the morning came when I went back to my inbox to find it completely empty — every tracking number, confirmation code, saved correspondence thread, gone. Cut to me digging through the digital trash can. An hour or so later I’d recovered what I needed, and in my sifting through the virtual stacks of junk mail, I found love letters.

Letters from angels formerly known as grandparents, wishing me well when I moved to the island. “You’re glowing”. “You deserve the best and the best for you will happen”. Blessings on my journey, sealed with a kiss on both cheeks.

Letters from then new companions, ones who shared in heartbreak and the rediscovery of ourselves while we healed.

Letters from a first love, who always went away when I needed him near, whose written voice, now in hindsight, was evidently as distant as he physically was.

Letters from estranged loved ones of explanation and self defense when all that was needed was apology.

I opened each of them, some more than fifteen years old, and for just a moment allowed myself to be transported back to those times. A temporary time traveler, I was — 2007, 2009, 2012, 2016. Affirmation, jealousy, heartache, tenderness. Longing. I read each of them, saved the messages from the angels, and threw the rest on the pyre. While the fire was burning I tossed a few more in, love letters they certainly were not but a paper trail I’d been keeping in case it was ever needed, messages I’d avoided scrolling too far back in my inbox to not have to see. I hesitated, but then I burned them too.

I was reacquainted with old versions of myself — the attached, the one in denial, the liberated, the hatched, the soft, the forged. For her, I left flowers where the ashes are. And then, back to the present, with the last sip of coffee, it was time to begin the day.

Thank you for reading. The comments and ♥︎‘s you leave on these letters in Substack are an appreciated affirmation and help new readers find me. If something here speaks to you, please share this publication with a friend.