My father loved to write. My mom told me that way back during their
younger years, my father would send her letters filled with words that
he couldn’t say to her in person. He would slip these inside her bags or
pockets and wouldn’t even talk about them. I guess he wanted my mother
to know how he felt about her, about them. Mom actually showed me one of
his letters earlier this year:
“Papa writes beautifully.”
“I know. That’s the main reason why I fell in love with him despite
his reputation and maybe that’s also the reason why I fell out of love.
When he stopped writing…he just changed.”
“But…do you think there’s still some part inside him that itches and longs to write?”
“Yes. That’s why there’s still a part of me that loves him, despite everything he’s done.”
I don’t know why but this gives me hope that this family is not as
broken as I assume it to be. We can still gather the broken bits and
piece them together again, right?
That tiny flicker of hope lingers so I guess maybe, just maybe.
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