1975 (Week Two) - InkSpot.Com

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My Grandfather's Letters

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#1091750 added June 30, 2025 at 11:22pm
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1975 (Week Two)

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May 3, 1975

My Vera,

I was lying in the motel bed last night, the hum of the old heater and the smell of dust in the air, thinking about us. About all the things we’ve said, all the promises we’ve made all the things we said today that keep me going while I’m away.

I still can’t believe how fast this business has taken off. When Timothy and I first decided to take on this out of town project, I thought it would be slow at first, just enough to keep the lights on. But here we are, wiring up new homes, fixing old ones, getting more calls than we can handle. It feels good to build something that helps people, something that will last.

But, love, it’s not the same without you. Every day here is another day I’m counting down until I can come home to you, to Winston’s wild laughter and your tired, beautiful smile.

Speaking of our boy how is he already four? I can still see him in my arms for the first time, those Lennon eyes blinking up at me, as if he already knew I didn’t have a clue what I was doing but loved me anyway. And now, to think we’ve got another little one on the way... Vera, you’ve given me more life than I ever thought I deserved.

Julia called and said she’s bringing Paula when she comes to visit Timothy next. She said Paula is asking about “Uncle Paul” and can’t wait to see me. They’re talking about moving away from Boston, looking for something quieter, somewhere Paula can run barefoot in the grass. I can’t blame them. The world feels too busy sometimes, and I think about how you and I have built a small, safe world for ourselves and how much I want to get back to it.

I think about you, Vera. About the way you tuck your hair behind your ear when you’re tired, the way you hum to yourself when you’re making tea, the way you look at me when you think I’m not paying attention. I am paying attention, love. I always am. Even here, miles away, crawling under floors, wiring up houses, shaking hands with new clients I’m thinking of you. I’m thinking of our children. I’m thinking of the life we’ve built, and how worth it all of this is because I get to share it with you.

When the workday is long and the nights are quiet, I think about how we’ll laugh about these days someday, sitting on the porch, the kids playing in the yard, you leaning your head on my shoulder. I think about all the things we said today the promises that feel just as true now as they did when we whispered them in the dark, newly in love, fighting for our future.

Hold onto that, Vera. I am.

I love you more than I know how to say, and I can’t wait to be home, to be with you, to meet our new little one, to keep building this life together.

Always yours,
Paul

May 10, 1975

My Paul,

Your letter arrived yesterday, just after I’d finally managed to get Winston down for a nap he’d spent the morning running circles around the kitchen with a wooden spoon, pretending it was a microphone while shouting “Daddy’s coming home!” at the top of his lungs. You’d have laughed, love, and probably joined in, turning the spoon into a guitar and teaching him to “Twist and Shout” until the neighbors complained.

I miss you.

I miss you in the quiet moments, when I’m folding tiny clothes for the new baby and thinking about the way you used to hum to Winston when he was this small. I miss you when the nights feel long and your side of the bed is empty, when I wake up at 3 a.m. to the soft flutter of our little one moving and wish your hand was there to feel it too.

But you know what I think about, too? The things we said today. The promises we made when we were young and stubborn, when all we had was a couple of Beatles records, cheap coffee, and the kind of faith that comes when you decide to love someone fully, even when it’s hard.

We promised to build a life, Paul and we have. Even with you miles away, crawling under floors and turning wrenches, you are here. In the light in Winston’s eyes when he talks about you. In the way I find myself humming while making tea. In the strength I’ve found in myself because of the strength you’ve always seen in me.

I’m so proud of you, love. Proud of the work you’re doing, of the business you and Timothy are building. Proud of the way you’ve chosen to live, with open hands, laughter, and that stubborn hope that won’t let you quit, even on the tired days.

Julia called yesterday, and Paula babbled on the phone about “Uncle Paul.” She’s excited to see you, and I know Timothy is grateful for your help. I understand why they want to leave Boston, and I’m glad they’re looking for a place to breathe easier. We’re lucky, love, to have found that already, even if it’s a little house with creaky floors and a temperamental heater. It’s ours.

You’ll be home soon, and we will welcome this new little Lennon into a home built on faith, laughter, and the music we carry in our bones. I want you to know no matter how tired we get, no matter how many long days and quiet nights pass I will always wait for you. I will always believe in you. I will always keep loving you, just as we promised, on the days that are easy, and on the days when it’s hard.

Winston and I are waiting, and we’re so excited to have you home, to see you take off your boots, scoop him up, and hum those Beatles songs that will always be part of our story.

Until then, know you are loved beyond measure.

Forever yours,
Vera

John read the last letter from Paul and Vera and paused, the paper trembling slightly in his hands.

How could two people love each other this much? How could they hold so fiercely to one another through war, distance, sickness, and shattered dreams, still writing about teacups on shelves and music in the kitchen, still promising always with every letter?

How could a love like that exist, and yet...

He thought of his father of Winston’s sharp sighs when Grandpa Paul’s name came up, the clipped conversations at family dinners, the tension that filled the room like a low hum whenever they were in the same space.

He thought about the way his father had built a life defined by quiet structure, never music, never dancing, birthdays marked by polite dinners instead of laughter.

What happened between them?

Because these letters these raw, messy, beautiful confessions painted a picture of two people who fought to love, who found a way back to each other no matter how hard the world tried to tear them apart.

John hoped the next letter would shed some light on the situation.

Word Count: 1232

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