I've been having some particularly bad days lately during this self-imposed isolation period we're all going through. Even though I've more or less lived like this since Warren died, there are days when it almost feels like I'm strangling on the loneliness.
I was looking for something in particular yesterday and I opened a small drawer in Warren's bedside bookcase. I've opened that drawer before but never really went through everything in it. I came across a folded paper and when I opened it, I gasped. It was a love letter I had written to him seven weeks before we were married, telling him how much I loved him and all the reasons why.
That he kept that letter, so accessible, didn't surprise me. What actually surprised me was that I found it when I needed to. Rereading it took my breath away and brought me right back to that time of excitement and sweet anticipation, filling me with a rush of overwhelming love. Somehow, in this sequestered time and place, he must have known how much I needed a tangible sign of the joy of our lives as a married couple. He knew. I have no other explanation. He knew.
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