A pile of letters from a time gone by. From my father’s pen to my mother’s eyes. They smell like books from a favourite shelf, tattered in places not unlike myself.
The ribbon that gathers them tightly is blue, stained with history’s adornments all of them true.
I’ll never be closer than where I am now, to this wonderful gift I am tethered somehow. I can see where the ink flowed a little too fast, but time is reflected in all that has passed.
I know every word on every page, the tear stained blots, the passion, the rage. My fathers pen, my mothers eyes, both still now, but still so alive.