I touched her face.
“I can grieve that nineteen-year-old Margaret was deceived without wishing seventy-three-year-old Margaret had lived differently.”
That took me years to understand.
Two truths can occupy the same heart.
Something precious was stolen from Walter and me.
And something beautiful grew in the life that followed.
One does not cancel the other.
I am eighty-one now.
The garage still stands.
We repaired the roof.
Replaced the door.
Climate-controlled one section so the letters and photographs would not deteriorate.
I eventually donated copies of some Whitmore Manufacturing records to the local historical society because they documented the labor dispute involving our fathers.
The private letters remained private.
Except one.
Walter’s final letter.
I keep it in my house.
The brass key hangs beside it.
Every year on the anniversary of our ridiculous two-day marriage, I drive to Bellweather.
Sometimes Ellen comes.
Sometimes Peter.
Sometimes I go alone.
I sit on the white swing.
