Sometimes love struggles to survive and letters continue to be written and never sent. There is a reason. And, as each letter is read, it is another chapter to a love story; a little more is learned and we want more letters; we want to know who, why, where, when, and what...and how, how will the story end? Love Letters Never Sent...
© I'm In Hiding, My Dearest,
from Letters I Never Sent to You
I was watched; my every move documented; I had to run. Run only at night and find a place to hide.
Time passes so slowly.
Is it too horrid of me to say I envy this sheet of paper that shall soon be in your hands? I pray I am here when you read it.
I’m frightened. Every day and every night my heart pounds when I hear military trucks pass by on the street above. I hold my breath waiting for them to force their way in and drag me off or murder me where I sleep.
I am quite alone. I feel abandoned. But, I know there will be no one to betray me.
I have nothing to hold onto. The war has separated us and your letters have stopped.
I hate that the war separates us. I know you’re alive. I know it. I know it.
You took possession of my heart and left me here with nothing to desire, no one to love. How many years have I been alive without a word from you? How I long to embrace you. I had to stop a wipe a few tears because it just keeps going through my mind how long it has been since we were naked lying skin to skin.
Dammit! I feel like I am losing this battle and I was never even fighting the war. I feel as though I am like a house, still standing after the battle, but empty. Lonely. Hopeful for your return.
You’ll think me sentimental, but each time I wrap that shawl you gave me for my birthday around my shoulders, I imagine it is your arms enveloping mine and your body pressing against my back.
I can’t post this. You’ll understand when you return and read all of my letters. Your sister, Marquette, escaped but they shot you mother, Jeanne, for hiding me. She wasn’t; she never did. Well, you know the reason why. Anyway, suffice it to say I had been somewhere else, but I heard what happened to them. I don’t know what happened to your brother and his wife. No one does.
Until the end of time, I am always
(Thomas P. Anschutz, Woman Writing at a Table, 1905)
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