Hey everyone. I’ve never done something like this before, but I feel like I need to tell someone, even if it’s just the universe listening.
It started a few days ago when I was cleaning out my attic. You know how it goes; you put off sorting through boxes because they’re just boxes filled with old things you’re supposed to have thrown away ages ago. But in one of those forgotten boxes, I found an old cigar box. I didn’t even remember owning one. It was heavy, and the lid was dusty with age. I sat down right there on the attic floor, feeling a strange flutter in my chest.
As I opened it, the unmistakable scent of old paper and something slightly sweet wafted up. Inside were letters. Dozens. All addressed to me from someone named Eleanor.
The name didn’t ring a bell. I thought maybe they were misdelivered or something. But as I pulled out one of the envelopes, I noticed it had my childhood home’s address on it. My hands shook slightly as I unfolded the first letter.
The words on the page were a cascade of emotions—lines filled with affection, dreams, and little anecdotes of shared memories. Eleanor wrote about things only a close childhood friend or forgotten family member could know. Her handwriting was elegant, looping letters and flourishes, so unlike my own.
I sat there, reading through the letters one by one. It was like unfurling a past I had no recollection of. There was one moment, reading a letter dated June 1985, where she talked about us building a treehouse behind my grandmother’s farm. She mentioned a secret promise we made under that summer sun, smudging ink where she described how we swore to always be there for each other.
But here’s the thing—I remember that summer differently. I remember building the treehouse, but I only remember being there with my cousin, Tom. I don’t have any memory of Eleanor.
As I read through all the letters, a picture started to form of a friendship, or perhaps even a first love, that existed in Eleanor’s world but not in mine. I felt like I was intruding on someone else’s cherished memory.
But then, something subtle and profound happened inside. It was as if a part of me I didn’t know was missing clicked into place. As if I had been living my life with an unnoticed shadow and now I was seeing what had been casting it.
The last letter was different. It was sealed with a wax stamp, the wax chipped and brittle. Inside, Eleanor spoke about moving away, about how her parents had decided it was best for her. She sounded heartbroken, yet brave. “I’ll carry your memory wherever I go,” she wrote.
Suddenly, it was all too much. I broke down on the attic floor, tears I didn’t expect streaming down my face. Maybe it was the realization of a friendship lost, or a piece of my past I didn’t know existed. It was overwhelming, this surge of emotions for someone I couldn’t remember but who seemed so deeply connected to me.
Reflecting back, I think maybe I buried those letters—and Eleanor—because it was too painful to remember. Or perhaps because her memory was washed away as life added layer upon layer of experiences.
I’ve spent the past few days rediscovering myself through Eleanor’s words. There’s a strange peace in it, a reminder of the person I was, and perhaps still am. The letters have become a bridge connecting past and present, reminding me of the beauty of connections, even those forgotten.
I don’t know if I’ll ever fully remember Eleanor. But I’ve decided to honor her memory by being the friend she saw in me. Thanks for reading this far. I hope maybe my experience resonates with someone out there.
Take care. ❤️