Daniel found me looking through the envelopes again one evening.
I had placed the photograph on the table.
The larger letter was beside it.
The smaller envelope rested near my hand.
I wasn't crying.
I was simply looking.
Daniel came over and sat down.
"Thinking about your mom?"
I nodded.
He glanced at the photograph.
"You've looked at that picture a lot."
"I know."
He didn't make me feel strange about it.
Instead, he asked a question.
"Have you thought about where you want to keep everything?"
I looked at the papers.
I had been so concerned about protecting them that I hadn't really decided what to do with them.
I didn't want them hidden in a box.
I also didn't want them exposed where they might get damaged.
"They should stay together," I said.
Daniel nodded.
"Then we'll find somewhere safe."
I appreciated that he said we'll.
He understood that these things weren't just mine in the ordinary sense.
They were part of the family I had come from.
And now they were part of the family we were building together.
I carefully arranged the photograph and letters.
I checked the folds.
I made sure the corners weren't bent.
Then I placed everything back in the original envelope.
I stopped before closing it.
The crimson dress came back to mind.
I remembered Lucas standing in it.
I remembered the guests watching quietly as he escorted me down the aisle.
I remembered Daniel waiting at the end.
For a moment, I wondered what my mother would have said if she had seen the whole thing.
Would she have laughed?
Would she have cried?
Would she have told Lucas he had gone too far?
I smiled.
Probably all three.
Daniel noticed.
"What?"
I shook my head.
"Nothing. I was imagining Mom seeing Lucas in that dress."
He laughed.
"I think everyone would have remembered that wedding."
I smiled again.
They certainly would.
But I knew that the most important part of that moment wasn't the unusual clothing.
It was the promise behind it.
I decided to keep one of our wedding photographs near the letters.
It showed Lucas in crimson standing beside me.
Daniel was in the picture, too.
I wanted the two memories together.
My mother's old photograph.
And the photograph of the man who had honored her promise.
I placed them beside each other.
One showed the woman who had given me life.
The other showed the people who had helped me continue living after losing her.
I looked at both pictures for a long time.
Then I put them somewhere safe.
A few days later, Grandma Ruth called.
She wanted to know whether I had settled on a place for the letters.
I told her I had.
"Good," she said.
"Mom's handwriting is still so clear."
Grandma Ruth became quiet.
"I can picture her sitting at the table writing those letters."
I closed my eyes.
So could I.
I imagined Mom leaning over a sheet of paper.
I imagined her pausing.
I imagined her writing my name on the smaller envelope.
I wondered whether she had smiled when she finished.
Grandma Ruth spoke again.
"Your mother always wanted you to have something to remember her by."
I looked toward the table.
"I have plenty."
"I know, sweetheart. But it's good to have something you can hold."
That sentence stayed with me.
Because she was right.
Memories could become difficult to reach.
Sometimes a voice faded.
Sometimes a face became harder to picture.
But the photograph was there.
The handwriting was there.
The paper had survived.
And I could hold it whenever I needed to feel close to the woman who had written it.
Click here to continue reading: PART 15: One Wedding Photograph Became More Precious Than Everything Else, Because It Showed How My Mother’s Promise Finally Reached Me
My Mother Promised She Would Wear Crimson to My Wedding, But I Was Twelve When That Promise Became Impossible
Part 14 of 20
