I told him about you. I told him how I met you, how I loved you, and how you saved me in ways you’ll never fully understand. I asked him to find you, on this day, at noon, at Marigold’s.
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This ring is your birthday present, my love.
“I asked him to find you, on this day, at noon, at Marigold’s.”
Helen, I hope you’ve lived a big life. I hope you loved again, even if a little. I hope you laughed loudly and danced when no one was looking. But most of all, I hope you still know I never stopped loving you.
If grief is love with nowhere to go, then maybe this letter gives it a place to rest.
Yours, still, always…
Peter.”
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I read it twice.
“Yours, still, always…”
Then I reached for the tissue paper. My fingers unwrapped it slowly, and inside was a beautifully simple ring. The diamond was small, and the gold was shiny, and it fit my finger perfectly.
“I didn’t dance for my birthday,” I said aloud, softly. “But I kept going, honey.”
The photo caught my eye next. Peter was sitting in the grass, grinning toward the camera with a boy on his lap, maybe three or four years old. It must have been Thomas. His face was pressed into Peter’s chest like he belonged there.
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Then I reached for the tissue paper.
I held the picture to my chest and closed my eyes.
“I wish you’d told me, Peter. But I understand why you didn’t, my darling.”
That night, I tucked the letter beneath my pillow, just like I used to with love letters when he traveled.
I think I slept better than I had in years.
I held the picture to my chest and closed my eyes.
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