Today I was at my Dad’s house, looking for his Ketubah (Jewish Marriage Document) from his marriage to my stepmother. She passed away a few months ago after almost 35 years of marriage, and he needs it for some memorial stuff he’s doing for her in Israel.
Anyway, it was too emotional for him to look through the closet where most of the photo albums and memorabilia were stored, so I offered to do it.
Besides the photos of vacations and parties, the newspaper clippings and greeting cards and certificates of accomplishment, besides the handwritten notes of birthday reminders was a box.
A box of love letters.
From men she knew before my Dad. Lots of them.
And from my Dad. Where I’m sure he professed his undying love and devotion, and talked about leaving his wife and two small children to create a life with her.
You’d think I’d read them, and you’d think I’d be angry. That she should have tossed those letters from other men. That my Dad chose to leave us for her.
But I did not, was not.
I sat there with those unread letters on my lap, and I just thought about how very lucky she was.
And then I put them away.
Are You Going To Be This Way The Rest of The Time I Know You? 