Arranging things in my closet, I find a box of letters. Atop the papers and envelopes is Evan’s Purple Heart license plate. I wonder vaguely if I ought to display it rather than hiding it away in my closet.

Beneath the metal plate I find letters written by two of Evan’s many grieving friends and given to us soon after his drowning in February of 2022. I read them as if for the first time. The first letter is beautifully penned cursive, black ink on white paper. In it Evan’s childhood friend, whose father taught at the missionary kids school our children attended, recounts the Guatemala boyhood adventures he recalls with the confident, daring boy he remembers Evan to have been. The writer skillfully describes specific scenes giving me glimpses into otherwise inaccessible parts of Evan’s childhood. Of course I shall always cherish it.

The other letter is several pages of neat manuscript hand-lettered in blue ink on lined paper. In it an army friend details a dark, dramatic scene in which he and two other close friends momentarily escape from their hellish war memories by laughing at, even as they serve as fodder for, Evan’s wildly inappropriate jokes in an onstage performance. I remember reading these same words in the early days of my grief, but I couldn’t make sense of them then. They seemed to me like the ravings of a madman. Now I find the writing not only coherent, but a vivid and true picture of Evan’s eccentric sense of humor combined with his bullish love for his traumatized friends. Both accounts stir within me a familiar ache – a longing to hug our son, to hear his voice and look into his eyes.

Next, I turn to the box where I find most of the remaining letters are to Evan from me during his army days. They too, are handwritten, some on greeting cards, others on notebook paper, or stationary. I write of my days at work , gatherings with family, or what his brothers and sisters and dad are up to. I tell him who prays for him and encourage him to guard his heart and keep loving. Each ends with our sacred words, “We’re gonna love each other forever” or the initials that carry the same meaning WGLEOF.

I’m grateful that Evan, through several years and various moves, saved my letters. A few are tattered as if they were re-read multiple times. I wonder if or how my words impacted him. I wrote too infrequently, too trivially. Yet, it seems the letters mattered. Did he have any idea how inadequate I felt my writing to be? Once mailed, I forgot what I’d written. Now my words have returned – tangible signs – ink on paper. They prove that we communicated our love to our son. I’m grateful to have such evidence. Oh yes, I’m grateful that he kept his box of letters.