I found a box in father’s room, Of cedar, worn and thin, A ribbon pale as fading light Still bound the years within. I broke the seal of memory, Unfolded trembling sheets— And stepped into a younger world Where two young hearts would meet. Her name in careful cursive, His promise strong and brave— Two souls tied by ink and hope Across the ocean’s waves. He wrote of frost on foreign ground, Of fear he would not show, Of how her laughter warmed him more Then any fire could glow. She wrote, “Come home, my dearest love, The roses wait in bloom.” He pressed her letters to his heart Inside the cannon’s gloom. He landed home in autumn rain, Through silence after flame— He lived to hold her in his arms, But it wasn't quite the same. He survived the raging flame, Came back home—but not the same— For war did not demand his breath… But still it led to death. Now evening finds him by the fire, Reading words she wrote— Her ink still warm against his hands, Her love in every note. All he holds as seasons turn, His broken heart in fetters, In this small box of love and loss… Are the echoes from Love Letters. © 2026 Rushell MacDonald in collaboration with Eric Christian. All rights reserved
