(photo by Margarita Kochneva on pixabay)

When I was sixteen, I was dating my husband’s best friend. One day, a bunch of us were playing pool in his downstairs rec room and my husband was home visiting from the army. It was the first time I met him, and he asked the whole group if anyone would like to write him letters while he was stationed in Calgary because he was constantly homesick for the coast. I immediately volunteered, having always loved writing. He seemed like a nice guy, and I was already friends with his sister.

Thus began a two year correspondence that was extremely entertaining for both of us. I would do everything in my power to make him laugh by drawing silly pictures and referencing Monty Python sketches we both enjoyed. I would keep him up to date on what everyone in our circle was doing and even confide in him at times.

When he was twenty and I was seventeen, he left the army for good and needless to say, we made a beeline for each other. We already felt like best friends because of these letters. It was as if we had a hidden secret that nobody else knew about. We dated for two years and then parted and went different directions.

When we were later divorced from our first marriages to other people, with one child each, we found each other again seventeen years later. We had both held onto our respective box of letters as a treasured keepsake from the past. The connection was deep, instantaneous, and profound. We felt like we were destined to reunite and have been stupidly happy ever since.

We realize that letter writing is a lost art, and we caught the tail end of its popularity. I suppose the equivalent now would be chatting online on a dating app before starting a new relationship. All the heady excitement and anticipation of starting to fall in love is still palpable whenever we look at these letters, which live in a special keepsake box on our dresser.

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