love letters

'One day/ I throw away all my love letters/ without noticing'

I'm going through boxes stored in my parents' garage. Finding all kinds of things I had forgotten (and, mostly, giving them away or recycling them, in the case of papers, without second thoughts). But I did find, in boxes and packets held together with decaying rubber bands, many, many love letters--from a high school boyfriend, from my college boyfriend, from the boy I dated the first year of graduate school (who began writing to me when I was a junior in high school), and from the printmaker (most of these written on the backs of proofs, or on Rives BFK).

Was I completely blind? I don't remember being amazed by how well-loved I was, at the time. I can't believe the love and kindness I found in these letters--and the humor, the tenderness, and the sweetness. I hope I was aware. I hope I was as sweet to them.

I guess I was a little surprised that I didn't feel regret as I read the letters and went through the tiny gifts I'd kept with them--a New York subway token, a tiny mirror made in an architecture lab, packets of lemon juice. I felt glad I'd had these boys and men to teach me about relationships and friendship. I felt really aware, too, that despite their goodness, and despite the importance of my relationships with them, I'd made the right choice when I needed to move on. Anaïs Nin: And then the day came/ when the risk/ it took to remain tight/ in a bud/ was more painful/ than the risk/ it took/ to blossom.

There could have been no 'blossoming' without such kind care in the first place. I put the boxes of letters back in the garage for now.