A woman was telling me how arid her marriage feels these years. She is not leaving, but the laughter has seeped out like a joke told too many times. 

Then a friend sent her a stack of their past correspondence, the handwritten letters that were in fashion in the last century. Living across an ocean from one another they wrote the details that might have been confided over tea or toddlers sharing trucks. This gave the messages a longevity not possible when two friends spill all their feelings into the air. 

She read them, the candid accounts of her marriage and everyday affection. It was never intended as a means to prove that she and her husband had once been playful, loving, in with both feet. But here was evidence scribed in her own hand, testifying the abundance of devotion, the flame of flirting not yet blown out.  

Most of us are partial to amnesia. Even before our temples turn silver names evaporate before we can speak them. I can recall, with some effort, that I went on a trip to Boston without John when we were newly in love, and was a worthless companion. Everything reminded me of him, and I was dull company indeed. My poor sister had planned a week of outings, but I was too busy pining to care. 

I no longer have the same difficulty leaving John for a few days, but it sparks something in me to replay the memory. 

What did I know then that I have forgotten?