Lost Love Letters

by Cheryl Shireman

  I miss you. I miss my greatest champion and the one person whose belief in my work never once wavered. I miss your double dare style. I miss meeting up for margaritas and drinking ourselves silly. I miss your laughter. I still remember when you ordered shots of Patron and proceeded to teach me the whys and wherefores of good tequila. I miss our serious talks when we delved into life’s problems and attempted to solve them. I miss how you really listened to me and my ideas with such ardent enthusiasm. I miss you needing me. I miss your frantic life, those phone calls. You taught me that real life can be so much stranger than fiction. I think of you often when I create these fictional worlds that some readers maintain don’t happen in real life; yet, you and I know that it can and it does, all the time.

  Things are good. Great. Fabulous. There are days when I feel like I have to apologize for that. I have all these things and everyone in my life that I have always wanted. You were right about so many of them and my heart breaks a little that you’re not here to share in my accomplishments. But, you made your choice and moved on and left me standing there. So clearly. You already knew what I would do and how I would react. You knew this, before I did. It’s true that I had to stand up for me and I suppose you had to lie and deceive because that is a part of who you are. Everything changes, but nothing really does; right? Here we are, three years later, leading completely separate lives, having chosen paths that take us away from one another instead of leading us back. Are you better for it? Are you glad you did what you did? That is what I sometimes wonder. Yet, time slips by and blithely shows us that we can’t go back to who and what we were, but it doesn’t make it any easier, when a word or a gesture or a shot of Patron reminds me of you and that friendship. The connection we shared meant so much and then just as swiftly meant so little. I’m sorry doesn’t undo the anger we both still harbor. I’m sorry doesn’t restore three years time that’s been permanently lost. I won’t start there. I’ll start here. I heard you, before it all went down and I still summon your words of encouragement when I need them the most. I remember your unwavering belief in me and my writerly talent and, on some levels, I write for and because of you.

  You were my best friend, not the best kind, but you were my friend and I miss you more than words can convey. I hope you’re happy. I hope you’ve found your way and that life treats you kindly because, in the end, no matter what we say and do (or said and did), love still rules the planet. It finds a way, as they say, and there are days when that one solemn thought is all there is. So, this is me saying I love you, still, in a letter that you will probably never see or read. Just know, in writing this down, it serves as enough solace for me. I do love you, still. So, thank you.

  KO

  Katherine Owen

  Katherine Owen lives near Seattle in a suburb overlooking Lake Washington in a very old house with her husband and two children. She has written and released three novels: Seeing Julia (Zola Award Winner), Not To Us, and When I See You. She is hard at work on her next novel which is due out late summer 2012.

  For more information about her novels, writing, and life in general, visit her website where she uses edgy language and a little bit of sarcasm in observing life as a writer. Get in touch with her via her contact page at the website. She’d love to hear from you.

  Find Katherine online at katherineowen.net

  Linda Barton

  Dear Grandma,

  It’s been far too long since I’ve written to you, and for that I am truly sorry. I hope everything is going well for you. Bob and I are doing well, as are the children and grandchildren. Bob has been staying busy with driving on a dedicated load, and I have been working hard on my writing.

  With the end of summer just a few weeks away, I find myself remembering back to the happy summer days spent with you and grandpa on the farm when I was a child. It was a treat to come for a visit because you always made me feel loved and wanted.

  Grandma, I wish I could tell you of the precious gift you gave me. Not something bought from the store, but the gift of unconditional love. Life is a difficult journey, but it’s a person like you that makes the journey worthwhile.

  The other day when I went to see Amber’s new house, I wondered what Syrea and Ralphie would remember of their time spent with me. Will I leave them with the same feelings of love that you gave to me? Would they smile every time the memories of our time together flowed into their minds? You taught me how to be a grandmother, and I pray that I can be 1/10th the grandmother you were to all of your grandchildren.

  Do you remember that summer when Jan and I kept stealing turnips from your garden? I laugh now, remembering back to how we would sneak to your garden, grab the green leaves on the turnips, and pull them out of the ground while giggling and running away. Then we would run to the barn and climb up into the hayloft, where we would eat our stolen treat. To this day, I don’t understand why we went for the turnips. I guess it was because they were big and easy to snatch and run. The funny thing is I ate so many of them that summer that I cannot stand the sight of them today.

  Years later, Jan and I were reminiscing of that time and we wondered why we didn’t go for your strawberries, but remembering what silly, little girls we both were then, we knew the truth – we just weren’t smart thieves.

  Grandma, I want you to know what a positive influence you had on my view of life. You taught me how to appreciate the simple moments and for that, I will always be grateful. Your silent strength and gentle spirit are what I admire so deeply. Too many times, I find the world closing in around me, and when I’m on the verge of lashing out, I remember your example. I only wish more people had your wisdom because the world would be a much better place.

  As I sit here writing this letter, I cannot help but remember grandpa loading all of us grandchildren on the wagon and pulling us out to the pond to go fishing. I smile when I remember all us kids bouncing around on that old beat up wagon, while grandpa grinned as he drove his tractor down the dirt road. I remember the cattle walking up to the wagon and taking handfuls of hay from us, as all us girls giggled and the boys teased us. Then once we got to the pond, we would all jump off the wagon and us girls would run around, while grandpa and the boys dug for worms. I remember the first time I caught a fish, and how I cried when I learned that I wasn’t supposed turn it loose to go back to its family in the pond. I do have to admit I thought that fish and it’s friends tasted great that night for dinner.

  Then once each of us had caught our fill of fish, we all jumped back on the trailer and rode to the creek to pick berries so you would make one of your delicious cobblers. I still laugh when I remember the excited look on dad’s face when the hot, bubbling cobbler came out of the oven. He would always say, “Here’s mine, but where’s the one for the rest of you!” I didn’t understand it at the time, but now that I’m grown I realize that whenever we would come for a visit dad must have enjoyed being his mommy’s little boy again.

  I treasure the memory of those times, when we would all fill our plates with food, and then sit around the yard, laughing and enjoying the warm summer day. How many times have I closed my eyes and watched as the image of happy grandchildren playing catch with a potato, or running around the yard catching fire flies flowed through my mind. Then we would carefully put the glowing bugs in a Mason jar and use them as a nightlight beside the large bed we would all snuggle into, to keep us safe from the monster that we were convinced lived in the tree just outside the large picture window. I smile whenever I think back to all the times we would sit at the top of the stairs and bounce down them, one-step at a time only to crash into the wall at the bottom. Then we would jump to our feet, laughing, and run back to the top to do it all over again. As I write this to you now, I can almost feel the bruise returning to my backside that I would always have after sliding down those hard, wooden stairs.

  Grandma, you taught me so many things lost to most people today. Like how to make lye soap, or how a chicken will have several undeveloped eggs inside
of it. The proper time to plant certain vegetables, and a lesson that I will never forget which is that just because pigs may seem nice, you must never come between them and their food. I know you did your best not to laugh at the site of Jan and I running and screaming like a couple of fools from those pigs when we got in their pen, and then the looks on our faces when we both fell in the mud when we dove over the fence to get away from the pigs. We both knew we had broke the rule, but you simply looked at us as we stood there covered in mud and I hate to think of what else, and said, “Are you girls going to do that again?” Then you pointed to the garden hose and told us to clean ourselves up before coming in the house. Jan and I hung our heads in shame and never broke that rule again.

  Grandma, I don’t understand why the Lord took Jan so soon. She was only forty-eight years old when an aneurism struck her and so full of life, but you reminded us that we should not be sad, and have faith that she’s in heaven with grandpa.

  Life is such a strange thing, isn’t it? We come into life, and if we are fortunate enough, we had a loving family to grow up in and learn how to be a person who will carry on the traditions with our own families. You were always the anchor in our family, grandma. You taught us how to love in such a way that everyone was convinced that they were your favorite. I remember one afternoon when all of us grandchildren were in the yard playing and the discussion started about who was your favorite grandchild. Each of us had our own story of the special things you did for us, and how we knew to the depth of our heart that we were your favorite. The discussion at one point grew quite heated, as each of us became angry how someone could ever believe that you loved him or her the most. I knew in my heart that I was your favorite because of all the special things we shared, but as I look back on that time, I realize that was your gift to each of us thirteen grandchildren. You made us believe that we were special and that you loved us with all your heart.

  When I think of all the children born that will never know that type of love, it breaks my heart. Every child should know what it feels like to be special, and to know that they are loved unconditionally.

  You gave me that gift, and I will treasure the memories of our time together until I leave this life. I will also strive to be the type of grandmother to my grandchildren that you were to me.

  My heart breaks as I remember the day I received the telephone call that you were ill. Bob and I were on the road, but he said that we needed to get to you as soon as possible. When I walked into your bedroom and saw you sitting in your bed, I knew it was time to say goodbye. Grandma, I will never forget the look on your face, a look of complete tranquility. As we sat there and visited for the last time, I cannot help but remember your words to me. You told me how proud you were that I was your granddaughter, and how I had turned into a wonderful woman and mother. I remember the tears in your eyes when I asked you to tell grandpa how much I love and miss him once you join him in heaven. I know your tears were not tears of sadness, but tears of knowing we would never see each other again in this life.

  Bob and I will speak of that day from time to time, and it always brings a smile to our faces. He will always say how you welcomed him into the family with such love, and he misses the way you would tease him. I’m so thankful to have had the opportunity to say goodbye, and I know that you and grandpa are watching over all of us.

  I love you grandma, and your memory lives on in all of us grandchildren who used to play together in your yard those long summer days all those years ago.

  Eternally yours,

  Linda

  Linda Barton

  I've done many different things in my life from working as a hair stylist, claims processor, to driving a Peterbilt Truck across the United States with my husband, Bob.

  I published my first book, Next Move, You're Dead in March of 2011, and after hours of arguing with the voices in my head, I now have five published books. While I never dreamed that I would be able to call myself an author, I must say that it has turned into one of the highlights of my life. I enjoy writing the stories that pulls the reader in, and holds them captive until the last page.

  Writing is a passion that has filled my life with so many rewards. I love interacting with the readers, and hearing what they want in a book. They have taught me how to be a better writer, and for that, I am truly grateful.

  Bob and I live in a quiet little community in southeast Texas with our two dogs, and one crazy cat. Over the years, I have learned that life is an adventure, and to appreciate all the blessings it brings.

  Find Linda online at deadlyreads.com

  Cheryl Bradshaw

  To Tiffany,

  “It’s the friends you can call up at 4 a.m. that matter.”

  –Marlene Dietrich

  I will never forget the day I answered my front door and was presented with an absolutely beautiful bouquet of flowers. When I opened the card and read it, I was shocked to learn they’d been sent from you. The flowers were your way of saying thanks for helping you get a promotion at work. At the time, I didn’t know you very well. We both worked for a virtual company where we exchanged emails and talked on the phone on a daily basis, but we hadn’t ever met in person before.

  Right around the time the flowers came, you sent me an email saying how excited you were when you discovered we both had the same personality type after we were tasked with taking the Myers-Briggs test for work. You were sure the “exact match” meant we were destined to become the best of friends. And you were right, although at the time you had no idea how long it took me to let someone inside my circle of trust. The emails from you kept coming, as did the out-of-the-blue phone calls, and I remember thinking, “This chick’s persistent.”

  As I look back, I realize I should be thanking you for being so patient with me. You understood I was a cautious introvert by nature and you waited, allowing our friendship to develop over time. Eventually we met, and over the years we’ve shared some pretty great experiences together. We became the kind of friends most girls aren’t lucky enough to find in their lifetime. What other friend is willing to spend half their day taking a three-hour tour of Lincoln’s birth place and childhood home just because I find him so fascinating?

  I’ll never forget the night I called you in a daze as I aimlessly roamed the streets of Park City in my car, my head spinning, heart shattered. Mentally I was lost. I’d had enough. The veil had been lifted and I finally saw what I needed to see in my marriage, even though I didn’t want to believe it was true. You stayed on the phone with me for hours that night, offering compassion, comfort, advice. I could have called anyone, but I called you because I knew you would tell it to me straight. I also knew I would listen. And thankfully, I did.

  We had many late-night conversations over the next few months. It never mattered what you were doing or what time I called—you were always there for me. I remember conversations that started in tears, ending in laughter. You did that. You reminded me that I mattered, that I had value. You said one day the right guy would come along instead of the wrong one. The right guy would recognize my worth, and the relationship would feel real, not like the fabricated house of lies I’d been used to.

  You were right. You’re always right.

  I made it through that tumultuous time in my life with a minimum amount of battle scars because of your guidance. You helped me find the woman I’d lost, the same woman who has since gone on to become a bestselling author, all because of someone who believed. Now I believe I can do anything. Scary, isn’t it?!

  Little did I know back then that one day I’d have the opportunity to do for you what you’ve done for me. I’ve come to realize God has a way of giving us trials at different times in order for us to be there for each other when we need to be.

  Over this past year, it’s pained me to see you struggle, to see you face challenges you never thought you ever would in life. But no matter how weak you think you are at times, you’re still the strongest, most confident person I know. That is who you are
. It’s who you will always be, if only you believe.

  For all the things I’ve never forgotten, there are things I never want you to forget. You are loved. You are valued. You matter—and not just to me. When you allow light to come in, your positive energy shines brighter than anything I’ve ever seen. You have so much to offer in this life, so much to give. Remember who you are, and never forget that you are capable of accomplishing great things. Find a man who makes you happy, someone who can give you what you need. You deserve it.

  “Promise me you’ll always remember: You’re braver than you believe, and stronger than you seem, and smarter than you think.” –A.A. Milne

  Cheryl Bradshaw

  Born and raised in Southern California, Cheryl Bradshaw became interested in writing at a young age, but it was almost two decades before she put pen to paper. In 2009 Cheryl wrote her first novel, Black Diamond Death (Sloane Monroe Series, Book 1). Within six weeks of its release it was in the top 100 in two different mystery categories on the Kindle and has been a top ranked novel since April 2011 averaging 4.8 out of 5 stars from reviewers. Since then, Cheryl has published two more novels in the Sloane Monroe series. Her novels are all Amazon Kindle Best-Sellers in Mystery: Hard-Boiled and Thriller: Spy Stories & Tales of Intrigue.

  Find Cheryl online at cherylbradshaw.com

  Louise Voss

  Dear John,

  It seems unbelievable that it’s thirty years this summer since you died. I often wonder who you would be now, had you lived – possibly an army colonel. Or maybe a used car salesman! Your ambition was to become an officer, and you would have made a good one, although I always had a sneaking suspicion that perhaps I wouldn’t have liked who you became. You always did have an arrogant streak – why wouldn’t you, with your jet-black hair and olive skin, and those gorgeous tawny eyes, the like of which I’ve never seen on anyone else? Your arrogance, and the power bestowed on you by a high army rank... hm... sounds like a recipe for Dickhead, in my humble opinion. I’d say ‘IMHO’ but you wouldn’t have a clue what that means, having died in 1983, before even fax machines were invented, let alone mobile phones and text speak and Facetime.