To my Beloved Read­er,

I once went to a rather strange play. It was about a young man who trav­eled to Paris in search of his past, tak­ing with him a bundle of love let­ters. The let­ters were old and fad­ed; they had been writ­ten by his grand­fa­ther to his grand­moth­er long, long ago.
As he read through the let­ters in a small apart­ment in Paris, he encoun­tered the all-engulf­ing , roman­tic, fiery love that his grand­par­ents had shared. But the let­ters only told half the sto­ry, as his grand­fa­ther had saved none writ­ten to him.
This young man in con­tin­u­al­ly inspired by the words of love put on paper. Final­ly, he reads one last let­ter. This one spoke of deep sor­row. His grand­fa­ther had out­lived his beau­ti­ful wife, and dear­ly regret­ted not sav­ing the let­ters she wrote to him. She had saved every word he ever wrote to her in a beau­ti­ful box so that she could remem­ber his love at any moment. But he did not and, once she was gone, wished that he had some­thing to hold in his hand and read with his heart.

As I walked out of the the­ater at the end of the play, I thought through all the keep­sakes I have: play­bills from shows I loved, pic­tures of friends, movie tick­et stubs and dried flow­ers. The ones that are most pre­cious to me are the let­ters that were writ­ten to me. They are there when I need them to reread and remem­ber that I am loved and full of poten­tial.

Today is Nation­al Let­ter Writ­ing day, which is why I have writ­ten this let­ter to you, dear Read­er. The mon­th of love is just around the cor­ner. The world will tell you that you should be buy­ing choco­lates, flow­ers, shiney gifts, but some­time the best most pre­cious gift you can give is a heart­felt let­ter full of the rea­sons that your spe­cial some­one is just so spe­cial.

Write well, dear Read­er.

With Love,
A. Lirael Flint




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