Opening The Box

Originally published on Mary McCorvey's Substack.

Outside my window, the city of Philadelphia below my apartment is vibrant with people and cars and trucks and the occasional fire siren. The normal sounds. The evening is a bit foggy, but I can make out the long lines of lights–amber, white, red, yellow– trailing away southward toward the Delaware River.

I cuddle myself in a warm robe and have a cup of chamomile tea with three drops of honey. My little brown dog Pup, now 16 years old, lies in his bed nearby, glancing up occasionally to make sure I’m still here. We keep close eyes on each other these days.

On this relaxing Friday night, I decide to spend time with Rob, as I so often do. I close my eyes and withdraw a thick letter of 19 pages, front and back, this one written from the red margin line on the left to the right edge. Not knowing where to start, I closed my eyes again, I opened the legal-sized pages that had been folded in half, and spread them before me as if they were a deck of magician’s cards from which I would blindly pull.

Here are the first words I saw:

I want to think of you in the future and so I have started to. I think of seeing you in the future and saying, “Mary, have we really been together for this long? Where have you been and what have you done? How’s your family? Hold me close and whisper in my ear. I love you.”

I would be wrong not to admit I want you in my life in the future, so I’ll let the future show me if I’m wrong. I’ll handle it when I have to … and yes, I’ve learned so much from you. Our time together is not too precious to break through barriers. But the difficult times of being apart make for greater times in the future so I look forward to having you in my future.

What a dreamer I am but I like it, so maybe we will be there. May I always hold this and when I fall, be there to catch me.

I am in this beautiful place as I write. The gentle knock at the door was only the wind but I opened it anyway to let you in. “Hello Mary, right on time as usual. Have you brought something to talk about?” You sit there, happy to watch me writing. You walk over to me in this Colonial setting and I remember the poem, “The Highway Man.”

“The Moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon the cloudy seas.”

I have thought of that poem before when I thought of you as I stared at the Moon from my backyard and drew you to me.

Hold me close, Mary. I cannot be romantic about you because you’re too fucking real. There is nothing I desire more than to be with you. No, you are not an addiction or a fixation…simply my realization and my joy.

For Mary I have set myself freeAnd open for weakness.Such strength from such need.

Your eyes captivate me and call me over the miles, not compelling or demanding, just there.

I, if I haven’t told you lately Mary Louise, love you totally and completely and forever, with my red puffy eyes and all.

I stopped, because I wanted to answer the question I saw. That, and I was overcome by his words.

Dear Rob,

Yes, we’ve been together this long. Thirty-five years. I just read a passage where you said you’d think of us together in the future, and here we are. And what a fine place to be. I’m so grateful to be with you all these years later. There have been times of difficulty when I couldn’t feel you, and it was impossible to think of opening the box.

But now, here you are.

You wrote to me in 1990 from Strasburg, Pennsylvania, just a few miles away from where I live now. So wonderful – so full of wonder – I feel that we could still be together. As it turns out, I am in your future. I am so convinced you know this, too. There could be no other way.

As I wrote in my last letter about answering people’s questions, I know you’re alive. I know where you live. Such things are easy to find, these days.

I just looked up the distance between here and Strasburg, and it’s 63 miles. Then I looked up the distance between where I live and where you live. And of course, it’s 63 miles. Well, 62.8, precisely. Close enough, I would say. You can imagine my smile when I saw that.

I know if we are meant to meet on a train platform, or at a roadside stop on the interstate, or some other place, it will happen. Because it’s supposed to. Not forced or contrived. I feel as though we would be moving, as that was always our way. Except when we weren’t, times that were heavenly.

Just for fun, I looked up the symbol of 35 years of marriage. It’s coral, which means longevity. That’s pretty funny, too, because right now, my apartment is decorated in coral colors. Paintings, vases, drapes, even the bedspread is a dark shade of coral. I find it calm and soothing. I’m smiling and shaking my head, just a little.

The synchronicity remains with us, as it did years ago, and in our lives till now. I feel it is growing stronger. It’s not a scary feeling at all, and not one that makes me sad or anxious. It just feels good, Rob.

I think if you were to tell me something about this, it would be that you feel it too, and we’re supposed to be, at this time. That you are glad I am happy, not scared or sad or anxious, despite the chances of us meeting again being infinitesimal. But then again, ya neva know.

I’m writing at my desk, where I love to create. I look across the room, and find I have a confession to make.

I did keep one thing out of the locked box, and I’ve carried it with me since the first Christmas we shopped together in New York for two ornaments we could give each other. Mine was a heart, beaded with little gold orbs, hung by a beautiful gold ribbon.

The ornament hung on the tree every year for the past 35, except for one when there was no tree. I made sure it was placed right at the spot on the tree where the heart would be, generally at eye level. I would make sure to look at it every day during the holidays, to feel its warmth and your smile.

Today, I can see it every hour of the day, if I wish. When I moved into this apartment, I retrieved it as soon as I could. I have a vase in which there are small birch limbs with twinkling lights. The heart found its place and I look at it often. It gives me great pleasure.

So here we are in the future, Rob. Do you feel it too? Do butterflies flutter in your stomach when you least expect it? Do you still look at the Moon and think of me, as I do you? You told me a long time ago that you would, and I believe you do.

I love you, Rob. I’ll read again soon, and I’ll write again soon.

Until Next Time, Mary

That was such a joy to write.

A reader asked me this week if what I was writing was true. Was I changing anything or embellishing?

The answer is yes, it’s all true. And she said, “Your truth.”

Well, the answer to that is also yes. Although what I share are words that Rob has written – no changes or embellishing. I would have difficulty even attempting that, and would never want to. And now, my truth is the letters I’m writing to him. In full disclosure, yes, my apartment is decorated in coral colors.

Do you have a question you’d like me to answer?

I welcome them, even if they may seem difficult to ask.

Just drop a message to me on Substack or send me an email.

Wishing you a present and a future filled with wonder and joy.

Remember,

Heartbeats are Finite.Possibilities are Infinite.

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Read the original post on Substack