1968 (Week One) - InkSpot.Com

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My Grandfather's Letters

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#1091504 added June 28, 2025 at 9:27pm
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1968 (Week One)

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November 2, 1968

Somewhere, somehow,

My dearest Vera,

They gave me paper. Real paper. A stub of a pencil, too, barely longer than my thumb, but it’s something. I don’t know why they gave it to me, maybe to show I’m not just a number, or maybe they’re trying to break me in a different way. Either way, I’m writing to you. God, it feels good just to write your name.

Vera.

It makes me feel human again.

I don’t know how long it’s been. Days blur here. Nights are louder than they should be; shouts, sobs, sometimes just the silence that wraps too tight around your throat. I’ve been forced to teach some of them English. That’s the trade, I guess. My freedom for my language. Or at least pieces of it. Some of the guards want to understand our music, our movies. They keep asking what “All You Need Is Love” really means. I don’t think they believe me when I say it means exactly what it says.

It’s hard. Harder than I ever imagined. Hunger gnaws at you differently when you’re not just starving for food. I miss your voice. Your warmth. The way you used to rest your hand just beneath my ribs when we’d fall asleep, like you were anchoring me to the world.

I’m scared, V.

There, I said it.

Not just of dying. I think I could stomach that if I knew you were safe, living, dancing barefoot in that ridiculous apartment with the ugly lamp still buzzing in the corner. I’m scared of disappearing. Of not making it back. Of becoming just, a memory someone folds into a photo album.

But if that happens...if...I want something crystal clear between us:

Don’t wait for me.

Don’t let this war steal both of us. You have too much fire in you to flicker out in someone else’s shadow. Love again, live loudly, wear that yellow dress that makes strangers turn their heads. Be you, unafraid.

You once told me you were afraid, you’d love me too much. That it would hurt when the world changed.

Well, the world did change. But your love…you; have kept me from falling apart completely. That’s the revolution I believe in. Not the kind with bombs or boots, but the kind where love refuses to die quietly.

If I get out...when I get out; I’ll find you.

If I don’t, know I was yours the whole time.

Always,
Paul

(still humming your name under my breath)

Word Count: 427

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