Love Letters Unwritten — Rachel Nevergall

It is 5:00 AM, and with the obnoxious grind of our automatic coffee pot, I awaken. I notice a light snore from the other side of the bed. My husband’s ability to stay in a deep sleep is remarkable.

It wasn’t always like this. I used to wait for him to bring me coffee, which is to say I woke him when I was ready for it. It started with the flopping dance, the exaggerated yawns, the tickling of my cold feet against his hot legs. It was a flirtatious game we played. He acted annoyed but I detected a grin under that sigh. This was our foreplay.

But now, eighteen years and three children later, I rarely wait for him to bring me coffee. I recognized if I wanted to have any time to pursue my writing ambitions, I was going to have to do it at 5 AM.

I peel myself out from under the comforter and fumble around for a sweatshirt I am certain I tossed on the floor with the rest of my wardrobe. The room is dark. I can’t seem to find it, despite my organized system. I decide to search his closet; his sweatshirts are always neatly folded and in place.

My right slipper sits next to the bed but the other is missing. I reach under the bed to retrieve it and my hand bumps a box. Curious now, or perhaps looking for a distraction from the writing, I peek at the contents inside. The worn paper and crinkled, torn open envelopes greet me with a heart flutter. I long to dive into it, but I don’t want to wake him. Instead I tip toe out of the room, box in one hand, laptop in the other. The old floors creak with every step I make and still he does not stir.

The coffee pot beeps "ready" as I enter the kitchen. I rummage around for a suitable mug, each one stacked like Tetris. It always takes a few tries when we move to a new home to solve the puzzle of the correct mug storage. Then it’s a matter of remembering the placement when unloading the dishwasher. He does most of the unloading so he usually keeps the better memory. Although I would never admit that to him.

Back when he would bring me coffee, he had the habit of grabbing the first mug he saw. I used to complain about this.

"The heart mug again? Really?"

"Complaining about me bringing you coffee again? Really?"

I thought this was all part of our flirty morning banter. After a few icy silent mornings, however, I learned he didn’t take kindly to criticism before caffeine. Choosing marriage over snark, I discovered rearranging the mugs in the cabinet increased my chances of a new cup. There are parts to marriage a bit like mug cabinet Tetris. You shift a little here and there as you learn about one another, what fits, and what doesn’t.

I pour myself a cup, only half full because when he awakens, he always refills my cup. "Need a warm up?" he’ll ask, a hypothetical question by this point in our relationship, but one that still makes me swoon.

Settled on the couch, I excavate the box. I pull out the papers with such gentle care, unusual considering my inclination to haphazard storage. But these are not just any papers. They are treasures—stacks of letters dated June, July, and August 2002, handwritten on simple white lined paper from him and eclectic mix of note cards from me. The symbolism of our personalities has never been better represented. I don’t need to read the letters to return to those days.

The story of us is one made for romance novels. The relationship was only three months new when summer plans in college separated us—ripped apart if you asked me then. I went home to my parents, while he to a church camp three states away. This was the pre-cell phone era of our relationship. Thus leaving us with only one phone call a week in which to bare our tortured souls. To close the distance, we wrote letters, multiple each week, the contents a combination of journaling as well as the nonsense only early lovers gush. It was adorable.

I read through the letters barely recognizing the effusive writers as myself and the man upstairs. And yet, behind the mockery, I sense my heart beating faster, a shy smile, a slight blush. I am 20 years old again, swooning over his words like it’s the first time.

There are few new letters in this box. We don’t write to each other anymore. I consider myself a writer and yet I can’t remember the last time I wrote a note to my husband that didn’t include an emoji.

I hear his footsteps down the stairs, and my heart flutters in anticipation of sharing with him my discovery. But as he approaches with the carafe of coffee to refill my cup, he interrupts me before I can say anything "Someone is crying in the kid’s room. I’m going in to investigate."

I whiplash back to the present, shoving the box aside. We’ll reminisce about the letters later.

But later quickly devolves into the morning rush— he leaves for a run; I prep three children for church. Then begins the shift change following church as I head off to a coffee shop to write more, thankfully, as I accomplished nothing that morning. My return home greets me with smells of chili cooking on the stove, a clean kitchen, and the giggling sounds of the daddy monster game in the other room. I pause to take it in, gratitude for him swelling in my heart. But dinner and bedtime demands sweep me away, and I forgot to tell him thanks.

It isn’t until we crash on the couch hours later, three heads finally tucked into beds, that I finally spot the box.

"Oh look what I found this morning!"As I pull out the letters, we laugh together at our cloying former selves. "We were babies then!" he remarks. But behind the laughter, I notice the twinkle in his eye matches mine. "We don’t write to each other anymore," I say. "No, we don’t," he agrees. The accusation lingers as he moves on, reaching for the remote.

We don’t write to each other anymore, I think, packing up the letters. Not like we used to.

Or do we?

My thoughts return to our day, the ways in which we quietly intertwined, the looks that passed back and forth, the gestures offered, the observations noticed. Maybe they were there after all—love letters passed between us, unwritten but not unread.

This morning, as he poured me my second cup of coffee, he said nothing of it. But now I see the letter he handed me:

Morning babe,

I miss snuggling with you in bed when you get up early. I miss being the first person to wake you, even though we both know who woke up whom. But I'm proud of you. Keep it up.

Or when he walked into the kitchen after his shower with nothing on but his undies, and I tapped his bottom and he gave me a wink, the note slipped from my hand to his read:

Hey cutie,

This letter is going to be short because two of our three children are currently screaming somewhere. But I just wanted to say I saw you walk by me wearing your new underwear and, DANG, you look good!

As I shoved him out the door to run or he shoved me out the door to write, we passed each other identical correspondence:

Dear sweets,

Get our of here. I got this. And did I mention, I’m proud of you?

We exchanged looks at dinner, eyes locking across the loud table of three little ones. I told him his chili was amazing and he agreed. But what I really said was:

Hey Babe,

Thank you for taking care of us.

And he wrote back:

Hi Love,

As always, it is my pleasure.

With every thoughtful gesture, every slight glance, every small touch, the letters of our day pile up. And there are more, not just from today, but from every day of our marriage. It’s how two people living a life side by side learn about one another, how he forgives me for being messy, how I thank him for caring for me, how we discover through the failures and wins how to make it all fit in the spaces we occupy together. It’s a new kind of love language. Words do not mark the letters like they once did. I can’t bundle them up and store them safely inside an archival box. But they are there. I can read them, if I learn to pay attention.

He chooses a show, presses play and then grabs my hand. I sense that familiar flutter in my heart. One more love letter to add to the box.

Image created by @phoenixfeatherscalligraphy for C+C, 2020.

This post was written as part of a blog hop with Exhale—an online community of women pursuing creativity alongside motherhood, led by the writing team behind Coffee + Crumbs. Click here to read the next post in this series "Love Languages".