Free The Letters by Luanne Rice, Joseph Monninger Page B

the Celtics fans can see that. That would be better drama.
     
    There, a little taste of Martha. Even the noble, dog-driving, north woods woman has endured her humiliating moments. Love levels us all. It is nearly incomprehensible to imagine Martha at a Celtics game with a big grin on the Megatron (or whatever they call the scoreboard) and her attentive beau beside her. But there she was.
    We heard snowmobiles late last night, and Martha says we may strike a trail later this morning. I will pass these letters along and hope they find their way to you. I am thinking of Paul right now. He was a fine boy, sweetheart. If we never did anything else but create such a fine human being—better than us both, I think—then our lives would still be well spent. I miss him so.
    Sam

         
    Dear Sam,
             
    On-by. You’re right—there’s something to be learned in that. It expresses a sort of letting go, detachment. I’m not there yet. But I like the phrase…
    Thanksgiving was hard. I missed you and Paul so much. I remember how when he was little, he’d come home from school on Wednesday—they always had a half day. And I’d be baking the pies, and doing the things my mother always did for holidays—polishing the silver, making cranberry sauce, fixing creamed onions, only those things always seemed to come so naturally to her, and I was always worried I couldn’t measure up, and he would help me. He was so sweet, Sam. When he was in first grade, I’d pull a chair over to the sink for him to stand on, and he’d just do whatever I gave him…He always liked helping and he loved polishing the silver, seeing the tarnish coming right off before his eyes. Instant gratification.
    This year I didn’t even want to notice the day. The weather has been so cold, with snow falling almost every night. I’ve been feeling like a hibernating bear—pulling the covers up over my head and waiting till the spring thaw. The nights get dark so early, it’s easy to hide. The island is pretty deserted right now, except for the lobster fishermen getting ready for their season and a few stragglers like me. Cat keeps me company, but she still won’t let me pet her.
    Turner actually came and knocked on my door, told me the church was having a turkey dinner for the AAs. It was the last thing I felt like doing, but I made myself. And in a funny way, I’m glad I did. There was a meeting first, and the topic—perfect for Thanksgiving—was “gratitude.”
    It’s been hard for me to feel grateful for much. No matter how clear the sky, or how bright the morning, or how warm the fire, none of it has mattered much in light of losing Paul. And—I’m glad this is a letter so you can’t interrupt me—losing you. I never thought that would happen.
    Your letters have stirred me up, especially the—well, the hard parts. The part about Daniel, to be exact. Sam, I knew you felt it—it was obvious, the way you couldn’t stand to look at me, meet my eyes. Would things between us have turned out differently if we’d faced this before you moved out? Maybe it’s only possible to do it in letters. Reading your words, I hear your voice, and I’m almost glad I don’t have to look into your face. It’s terrible to realize what I did to you, to us. What I broke. I appreciate your taking part of the blame, not that blame is the point.
    What is the point? Understanding, maybe. On-by.
    From the very beginning, I knew we belonged together. I’d never known how lonely I was until I fell in love with you. I’d lie beside you and feel you were part of me but somehow not, too, somehow so exotic and unknowable, and I’d feel I could look into your eyes forever, just touching you and caressing your face, your beard, and the way it felt to my hand, and the way my heart would feel as if it was beating outside my rib cage, and we’d just gaze at each other and you’d never look away first. I loved you for that…
    I felt such passion for