She understood then, with the distance that maturity brings, how much he’d loved her back then. And still did, something whispered inside her, and all at once she had the strange impression that everything they’d shared in the past had been the opening chapters in a book with a conclusion that had yet to be written.
He knew that Amanda would always be the very best part of him.
Whatever you decide to do, remember that you have to be able to go forward in life without looking back.
That’s the first time you said my name... and I like it.
A truth emerges in any long marriage, and the truth is this: Our spouses sometimes know us better than we even know ourselves.
And that was our beginning. It’s not a thrilling tale of adventure or the kind of fairy-tale romance portrayed in movies, but it felt like divine intervention.
We all know that art is not truth. Art is a lie that makes us realize truth, at least the truth that is given us to understand.
It went on, this lifetime in a box, one letter after another.
Her hands are warm and soft. Hands I knew better then my own.
The last thing she’d wanted was anything as complicated as a relationship, for it felt as though there we’re though complication in her life already.
She had known the kind of love that was worth risking everything for, the kind of love that was as rare as a glimpse of heaven.
You’re very perceptive for a guy who can go a whole day without talking,” she said, peering up at him. “That’s why I’m perceptive.
Because I thought it was good enough. And I hoped I could change. That over time, maybe I would come to feel the same way about him as I did about you. But I didn’t, and as the years went on, I think he came to see that, too. And it hurt him, and I knew it hurt him, but the harder he tried to show me how important I was to him, the more suffocated I felt. And I resented that. I resented him...
He drew a deep breath, struggling to keep his emotions in check, knowing he didn’t love her simply in the here and now but that he would never stop loving her.
But Ruth has not read all the letters I’ve written to her. She couldn’t. Though I wrote them for her, I also wrote them for me, after all, and after she passed away, I placed another box beside the original. In this box are letters written with a shaking hand, letters marked only by my tears, not hers. They are letters written on what would have been yet another anniversary. Sometimes I think about reading them, just as she used to, but it hurts me to think that she never had the chance.
Here’s what else I’ve learned: Age doesn’t guarantee wisdom, any more than age guarantees intelligence.
I wish I could simply forgive myself and move on, but then again, if I really wanted to change, why didn’t I?
Because counseling isn’t about changing someone else. It’s about trying to change yourself.
She would tell me that it was a sign that your heart was pure, that you formed deep attachments, and that once you loved something – or someone – you would never stop.
You can’t run, you can’t hide, and the idea that you have no control at all just gets into your head and it sticks there. In my time in the Navy, I was never so scared in my life. Bombs and smoke everywhere, fires on the deck. Meanwhile, the guns are booming and the noise is like nothing you’ve ever heard. Thunder times ten, maybe, but that doesn’t describe it. In the big battles, Japanese Zeros strafed the deck continually, the shots ricocheting all over the place.