My wife and I fell in love at the stroke of a pen. Her flowing handwriting would dance with the imagination in her head like a beautiful tango. I was quickly enchanted. I met Kelly days before flying off to war in Iraq and we kept the postman busy with hundreds of handwritten letters. In a time of emoji and texting bliss, we put pen to paper and I think we greatly benefited from the old fashioned intimacy.
I even went as far as to buy a stamp and letter wax sealing every envelope. I like to imagine my great-grandparents did the same.
In one of her earliest letters Kelly informed me with Jeffersonian eloquence that women were like apples on an apple tree. Most men will come along famished from their folly and simply pick one of the fallen fruit from the ground. Such a man will consume the apple with little attention. He’ll eat around the bruises and worm ridden spots, discarding the core and then venture on. A few men will wander upon the apple tree and make the minimum effort of reaching for a low hanging branch. They will hastily enjoy the sweetness of the fruit but with little effort will come little appreciation.
She then told me with no uncertain terms that she was the biggest, brightest and reddest apple suspended on the highest branch of the figutive apple tree. To enjoy such a fruit would mean climbing every laborious branch. Only with muscles sore and aching from the climb would I, or any other man, be deserving of such a Godly and righteous women. I was floored by her candor and self-respect. I would like to think I began my climb towards her heart moments after reading her powerfully persuasive analogy. I would like to think I will continue to climb for the rest of my life.
A life I am now honored and privileged to spend with the wisest and most beautiful apple I have even seen.