1971 (Week Two) - InkSpot.Com

Welcome

I'm just starting this out to see how things go and hopefully I can really make this look good, so this will change soon

My Grandfather's Letters

<<< Previous · Entry List · Next >>>

#1091749 added June 30, 2025 at 9:09pm
Restrictions: None

1971 (Week Two)

Prompt ▼

November 22, 1971

My Vera,

Well, shake it up, baby!

I still can’t believe it you did it. You blessed me with a son. A son, Vera. Every time I say it, it feels like I’ve been given the greatest gift this world can offer.

And you. You. You are stronger than anyone I have ever known, bringing him into the world, holding on through all the pain and fear, and somehow still finding a smile for me when they let me in. I know I almost missed it traffic, the call coming while I was on that delivery route, my hands shaking so bad I nearly dropped the phone. I’m sorry I wasn’t there for every moment, but the moment I saw you, holding him, I knew everything was going to be okay.

And Winston. You picked the perfect name, love. Winston Lennon it has a ring to it, doesn’t it? I see it already, the strength in his tiny hands, the fire in his lungs when he cries. You laughed when I started singing to him right there in the hospital, but I couldn’t help it. A Lennon baby deserves a proper welcome, even if it’s his dad croaking out “Twist and Shout” until the nurses threaten to toss me out.

I can’t wait to teach him everything about music, about the Beatles, about how to dance in the kitchen with bare feet on cold tile. About how to live with a loud heart, about how love real love means showing up, even when it’s hard. About how much his mother changed my world, made it brighter, gave me a reason to come home.

Speaking of coming home, I can’t wait until I start with Timothy next month. Working with my hands again, learning something new, wiring up homes so other families can turn on their lights and feel safe. I’m excited, Vera. Excited to build something steady for you and Winston. Excited to come home each night, drop my keys on the counter, kiss you, scoop up our boy, and just be there, together.

We’ve been through so much, love. From letters across oceans to sleepless nights waiting for news, to this new chapter dirty diapers, lullabies, and the quiet, exhausted laughter of parents trying to figure it all out together.

But this is what we fought for. This is the life we get to live now. And I promise you, Vera, I will keep showing up. I will keep twisting and shouting, singing and stumbling, dancing and living right here with you.

Thank you for our son. Thank you for your love. Thank you for you.

Always yours,
Paul

November 25, 1971

My Paul,

You would have laughed if you saw me reading your letter I was holding Winston in one arm, trying to rock him to sleep, while holding your words in the other, tears dripping onto the page. Happy tears, love. The best kind.

Yes, our son. It still feels unreal, doesn’t it? Some days I look at him, and I see you so clearly it takes my breath away the way his brow crinkles when he’s hungry, the way he stretches those tiny fists like he’s ready to take on the world. I have no doubt he will, with a father like you to guide him.

I’m glad you love the name. Winston Lennon. It sounds like strength, but also softness, like the man I fell in love with. The man who sang Beatles songs off key in hospital hallways just to make me smile, even when I was exhausted and aching, even when the nurses scolded you to hush.

You would be proud to see how you calm him, even when he’s fussy. When you sing, even your humming, he stops crying for just a moment, like he knows his dad’s voice is where he’s safe. I think about all the things you’ll teach him about music, yes, but also about kindness, about how to love without fear, about how to stand up for what’s right and keep laughing through the storms.

I know it hasn’t been easy, Paul. I see the way you push yourself, working long hours to provide for us, learning your new trade with Timothy, coming home with sawdust in your hair and your smile tired but real. I see how sometimes your eyes go distant, memories flickering like shadows, but you always come back to us to me, to him. That means everything.

This life we’ve built it’s not fancy, but it’s ours. Our small kitchen filled with baby bottles and coffee cups, the soft creak of the floorboards when you tiptoe to peek at him while he sleeps, your boots by the door, ready for another day.

Thank you, Paul. For fighting to come home. For learning how to live again, even on the days it’s hard. For loving me, for loving Winston, for choosing us over and over.

I don’t need anything grand, love. Just you. Just us. Just these quiet, precious days where we get to be a family, even if it’s messy and loud and sleepless. It’s ours.

Come home safe tonight, and we’ll dance Winston to sleep together, humming your Beatles tunes, the three of us tangled in a love that has weathered so much and still keeps growing.

I love you, Paul Lennon. Always.

Forever yours,
Vera

John set the letter down gently, the corners trembling just slightly in his hands.

Winston. His father.

It was strange, reading these tender, tired, hope filled words from Vera, realizing she had written them while holding the newborn who would one day become the man John had spent his entire life trying to understand.

His father, who was now grey at the temples, who could never quite sit still, who snapped at small things and apologized in quiet, gruff tones. His father, who never spoke much about his childhood except in clipped, factual statements “Dad worked a lot,” “Mom was always busy,” “It was just life, you know.” But here, in this letter, John saw everything that came before.

Vera’s joy, her gratitude, her determination to build a home with Paul. Paul’s promise to be present, to keep singing and laughing, to teach his son about music, about kindness, about how to live boldly even after the darkness of war.

They had worked for this. They had fought to keep their love alive, to create a family, to give Winston a foundation of warmth and safety, even when they were tired and the world was heavy.

John felt a tightening in his throat, an ache he hadn’t realized he’d been carrying. For so long, he’d seen the distance between his father and grandfather as proof that love, no matter how powerful, wasn’t enough to overcome the weight of the world. But now, holding these words, he saw something different.

Love wasn’t a magic spell that erased hardship. It was the choice to keep showing up, day after day, even when your hands were tired from work, even when your mind was filled with old ghosts, even when the world told you it was easier to walk away.

Paul and Vera had chosen each other. Chosen Winston. Chosen to spread the love they had for each other into a new life, a new generation.

John wondered how much of that had reached his father how much Winston had absorbed in those early years, before the world hardened him, before the weight of expectations and unspoken pains built walls around his heart.

And then John wondered if he was the next to choose.

To choose to love, despite fear. To choose to believe that love could be a legacy, passed down not as perfection, but as effort, as hope, as presence.

John closed his eyes, letting himself feel the moment fully. Then he looked around the attic, filled with the quiet hum of history, of stories waiting to be fully understood.

“Thank you,” he whispered, to no one in particular, and to everyone who had come before him.

Then, with steady hands, he reached for the next letter.

Word Count: 1363

<<< Previous · Entry List · Next >>>