Love Letters Lost
written by: Nadine Brown
“…Knowing my heart will never beat the same without you, my hazel eyes.” I carefully re-fold the poem and tuck it back into its bed, labeled Jeff, placing it into an old gift box. It’s been a while since I’ve sat here, staring at the dark Victorian travel chest that lies dormant in the shadows of our basement. I was drawn to this corner to transfer my collection of handmade valentines from my daughter into permanent storage. Free drawer space upstairs has become a commodity. I ran my hand across the cold leather, waking the dust mites from their slumber. I am alone, which is rare, therefore, it was safe to unlock and lose myself in the years of youth, innocence, and hopeful optimism. I had twisted the small key, undid the metal latches that clunked as they released years of pressure from protecting my memories. It took me two hands to lift the lid, and the doorway to my past was re-opened.
My Bobby Hull Blackhawk jersey, stained from the years of living within it, lies on top as a blanket for the more fragile belongings underneath. I let my hands slide across the divots of my peanut-shaped coin bank, that symbolizes my mom’s nickname for me. I laugh at my first baby doll that could star in any quality horror film today. I read my DOB, height, and weight written on the toes of ceramic feet that once walked up my bedroom wall until moving day approached. I pick up Santa Jesus, a rubber stretchy Santa toy that my friend, Sandy, dressed as Jesus. We had a shared custody agreement of him throughout our high school and college years. I consider shipping him back to her because he was obviously way overdue to spend quality time with her. I continue to dig around the chest, rediscovering the silliest keepsakes from childhood, shedding tears over mementos from loved ones that have passed, and staring in amazement at my daughter’s first pair of shoes that seemed unnaturally small now.
The shriek of dolphins coming from my phone startles me away from my youth, as I turn to read my daughter’s text message. A few sentence fragments, no punctuation, followed by a smiley face and crossed fingers, glow forth from the screen. It makes me wonder when putting pen to paper will be looked upon as an archaic and ancient ritual. I seriously consider whether we are evolving backwards to pictographs. Instead of history being captured through meticulously etched hieroglyphs for future generations to learn from, my grandchildren’s past could become an echo of an existence, leaving only a digital footprint of emojis buried in the cloud.
Slightly saddened by the prospect of the complexity of humanity transforming into basic binary code, I finally appreciate the foresight of the Matrix movies. Sighing, I return my attention to the chest of tangible proof that I not only exist but have lived. I reach back into the old gift box filled with handwritten notes, poems, and love letters I had received over my years. I carefully unfold one and then another, as if each were a secret waiting to be revealed. The words resonate through my mind, igniting synapses in areas of my brain that haven’t fired in years. I revisit my first love from high school. We couldn’t have been more opposite, yet our spark fueled a fire that simmered way after our relationship officially ended. I read cards romantically declaring love, notes sharing lives across the distance, poems trusting me with their heart’s vulnerabilities, and letters expressing regrets when parting ways. I could feel the remnants of love once shared as the words, “you will be mine forever,” penetrated not just my mind, but also my heart. I wiped my cheeks dry, knowing I caused the pain that translated into, “I cannot accept that this is goodbye,” even though I had made the right decision.
After spending an entire afternoon immersed in what once was, I am thankful for having small pieces of truth to remind me how my imperfect life has progressed into an existence that is meaningful to me (and hopefully those who have met me along the way). I am reminded of the lessons I learned along the way: Every relationship is worth having, the most difficult realization is accepting that love isn’t always enough, and each experience made me ready to meet my husband. I feel sorry for all the love letters that will never be written. Romance will be replaced by unimaginative minds, lazy fingers, and computerized declarations generated by ChatGPT. First loves, great loves, and loves that should have never been, will be lost to the archives in our minds without a key to unlock them. They will be forever glamorized with skewed versions of truth versus concrete convictions of emotion.
I attentively place pieces of me back into my chest. I slowly close the lid, resetting the latches to once again protect my history. I stand up, stretching the aches from my back, after sitting so long. As I walk upstairs to rejoin the present, I wonder in a digital world what future generations will have to tangibly hold onto as a way to remind them of the road on which they have traveled. Hopeful to inspire, I pull out my phone, “Hey, Siri. What time does the antique mall close?” I think it is time to get my daughter a travel chest of her own.
- Love Letters Lost - June 26, 2026
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