Actual Orange Flower, Spring 1961
As previously mentioned, I typed my dad's army love letters to my mom when he was stationed at Fort Ord in 1960-61. I read the letters ten years ago and felt pained because they reminded me of the sweet love my parents once shared that no longer existed. In the weeks since I transcribed them, I've come to feel something very different.
My parents divorced 16 years ago this August. I spent many of those early years subconsciously longing for the past or hoping for a reconciliation. I talk and write about my parents' divorce a lot because it negatively effected me more deeply than anything else that has happened in my life. I can't tell you all the reasons. I don't know them all myself. I can only say the loss still touches the deepest chords in my heart.
Back to the letters. When I unfolded one letter, I was surprised to find a pressed flower clinging to the paper. The flower was yellowish and as fragile as butterfly wings. Dad wrote in this letter that he'd picked an orange flower from springtime bouquets growing on the hills near his camp. He'd been walking early on a Sunday morning in the sunshine thinking about my mom, his fiancee at the time. He said he'd heard that flowers were a way to a woman's heart and he hoped this flower would find a way to my mom's heart. My dad had a simple way of expressing his love but it touched me as sincere. I haven't stopped thinking about the fragile butterfly flower. It is now fifty years old and has outlasted both my parent's marriage and the young man that picked it from a blossoming hillside. For some reason, I didn't feel the usual sadness when presented with this fragile memento. I felt gratitude. Let me explain.
I've had a feeling lately that no love or act of goodness is ever wasted. I remember growing up beneath the love my parents shared. I was a product of that love. I remember the good times. My dad called Mom, "Dee Dee Buns" and held her hand in his. Mom admired the way Dad worked and his spiritual qualities. I remember darker times. But I wonder if it wouldn't be ok to take a mental blur tool, and soften those sad memories. I'd do this to let the sweet and tender memories overshadow the fights and sadness. I think of beautiful Spring days and stunning sunsets and I wonder if they are to be forgotten or the memories of those moments not treasured because the winter came. I don't know what will happen in the next life. I don't anticipate my parents reuniting and I'm ok with whatever the Lord decides and what they decide. I'm simply grateful they loved for a time and that they had me. They were wonderful parents. I want to honor them with my life. I want to show appreciation to them through the way I live and love my family. Because without their love affair, I would not have my life, my marriage, or my children. I think I'm finally healing and it feels so light and happy.
I feel all this because of the fragile butterfly flower pressed between the folds of a love letter written many years ago. The flower didn't seem to want to be forgotten. I'm glad it survived. It's almost like it took me back with it fifty years ago so I could look at a fresh love affair on a perfect Spring morning and love it for what it was in that moment when the flower was picked fresh from the hill. I don't think moments of love are wasted and they shouldn't be forgotten. They bring happiness. No love is ever wasted.
My parents divorced 16 years ago this August. I spent many of those early years subconsciously longing for the past or hoping for a reconciliation. I talk and write about my parents' divorce a lot because it negatively effected me more deeply than anything else that has happened in my life. I can't tell you all the reasons. I don't know them all myself. I can only say the loss still touches the deepest chords in my heart.
Back to the letters. When I unfolded one letter, I was surprised to find a pressed flower clinging to the paper. The flower was yellowish and as fragile as butterfly wings. Dad wrote in this letter that he'd picked an orange flower from springtime bouquets growing on the hills near his camp. He'd been walking early on a Sunday morning in the sunshine thinking about my mom, his fiancee at the time. He said he'd heard that flowers were a way to a woman's heart and he hoped this flower would find a way to my mom's heart. My dad had a simple way of expressing his love but it touched me as sincere. I haven't stopped thinking about the fragile butterfly flower. It is now fifty years old and has outlasted both my parent's marriage and the young man that picked it from a blossoming hillside. For some reason, I didn't feel the usual sadness when presented with this fragile memento. I felt gratitude. Let me explain.
I've had a feeling lately that no love or act of goodness is ever wasted. I remember growing up beneath the love my parents shared. I was a product of that love. I remember the good times. My dad called Mom, "Dee Dee Buns" and held her hand in his. Mom admired the way Dad worked and his spiritual qualities. I remember darker times. But I wonder if it wouldn't be ok to take a mental blur tool, and soften those sad memories. I'd do this to let the sweet and tender memories overshadow the fights and sadness. I think of beautiful Spring days and stunning sunsets and I wonder if they are to be forgotten or the memories of those moments not treasured because the winter came. I don't know what will happen in the next life. I don't anticipate my parents reuniting and I'm ok with whatever the Lord decides and what they decide. I'm simply grateful they loved for a time and that they had me. They were wonderful parents. I want to honor them with my life. I want to show appreciation to them through the way I live and love my family. Because without their love affair, I would not have my life, my marriage, or my children. I think I'm finally healing and it feels so light and happy.
I feel all this because of the fragile butterfly flower pressed between the folds of a love letter written many years ago. The flower didn't seem to want to be forgotten. I'm glad it survived. It's almost like it took me back with it fifty years ago so I could look at a fresh love affair on a perfect Spring morning and love it for what it was in that moment when the flower was picked fresh from the hill. I don't think moments of love are wasted and they shouldn't be forgotten. They bring happiness. No love is ever wasted.
3 comments:
What a beautiful post Melissa :) Thanks for sharing your thoughts.
love the way you write, very sweet.
great perspective and so true!
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