They fell out
of an old cardboard box,
in a pile, onto the floor.
It was like that scene
from Garfield’s Christmas.

I, too, found a stack
of old love letters,
written from she who now,
as I move her out of her life,
must be obeyed;
she who I betrayed.

I’d forgotten,
(or maybe I never knew,)
how much she loved
me.

Her words tell me.
Surprise me.

Now,
nearly four decades later,
I can only stand
in the messed up
and cluttered garage
the cold, damp space
that still holds,
for a little while longer,
the life
which we shared.

There,
amid piles
of old,
handwritten papers,
scarcely daring to read
those words she wrote
decades ago,
I weep bitter tears of
sorrow,
guilt,
pain,
and deep remorse.

She’ll never know
how sorry I am.
How could she?
Until this moment,
I didn’t even know.