her wedding day, ultrasound images of Josh and Kristen while each was still in her womb, along with the outfits that each had worn on the way home from the hospital. Photo negatives and camera disks, chronicling their years together.
The articles were heavy with meaning and memories, and since Carly’s death, Alex had added nothing to the safe, except for the letters that Carly had written. One had been addressed to him. The second had no name on it, however, and it remained unopened. He couldn’t open it—a promise, after all, was a promise.
He pulled out the letter he’d read a hundred times, leaving the other in the safe. He’d known nothing about the letters until she’d handed the envelopes to him less than a week before she died. By that point, she was bedridden and could only sip liquids. When he carried her to the bathroom, she was light, as if somehow she’d been hollowed out. He spent her few waking hours sitting quietly beside her. Usually, she would fall asleep again within minutes, and Alex would stare at her, afraid to leave in case she needed him and afraid to stay in case he might rob her of rest. On the day she gave him the envelopes, he saw that they had been tucked into the blankets, appearing as if by magic. Only later would he learn that she’d written them two months earlier and her mom had been holding them.
Now, Alex opened the envelope and pulled out the much-handled letter. It was written on yellow legal paper. Bringing it to his nose, he was still able to discern the scent of the lotion she often wore. He remembered his surprise and the way her eyes pleaded with him for understanding.
“You want me to read this one first?” he remembered asking. He pointed to the one inscribed with his name and she nodded slightly. She relaxed as he pulled the letter out, her head sinking into the pillow.
My dearest Alex,
There are dreams that visit us and leave us fulfilled upon waking, there are dreams that make life worth living. You, my sweet husband, are that dream, and it saddens me to have to put into words the way I feel about you.
I’m writing this letter now, while I still can, and yet I’m not sure how to capture what I want to say. I’m not a writer, and words seem so inadequate right now. How can I describe how much I love you? Is it even possible to describe a love like that? I don’t know, but as I sit here with pen in hand, I know that I have to try.
I know you like to tell the story of how I played hard to get, but when I think back on the night we first met, I think I realized even then that we were meant to be together. I remember that night clearly, just as I can recall the exact sensation of your hand in mine, and every detail of the cloudy afternoon at the beach when you dropped to one knee and asked me to become your wife. Until you came along, I never knew how much I’d been missing. I never knew that a touch could be so meaningful or an expression so eloquent; I never knew that a kiss could literally take my breath away. You are, and always have been, everything I’ve always wanted in a husband. You’re kind and strong and caring and smart; you lift my spirits and you’re a better father than you know. You have a knack with children, a way of making them trust you, and I can’t express the joy it has brought me to see you holding them as they fall asleep on your shoulder.
My life is infinitely better for having you in it. And that’s what makes all of this so hard; it’s why I can’t seem to find the words I need. It scares me to know that all of this will be ending soon. I’m not simply scared for me, though—I’m scared for you and our children, too. It breaks my heart to know that I’m going to cause you all such grief, but I don’t know what I can do, other than to remind you of the reasons I fell in love with you in the first place and express my sorrow at hurting you and our beautiful children. It pains me to think that your love for me will also