From the Sky - Part XI

She looked at me, and for a moment I think she stopped breathing. She stood and walked to a kitchen drawer, and came back with a small handful of letters. She dropped them in front of me. The postmarks were from New York City. The names on the return address were all the same: C. Gianficaro

"Carlo? I've heard Rae talk about him. She thinks he was your great love."

"He started writing me."

"When?"

"Three years ago. Two years after his wife died."

There were only four letters, and Sal must have seen my brow wrinkle up because she said: "Those are from last week. The rest are upstairs, scores of them."

"Does he call you?"

She shook her head.

"Letters only. I insist on that. Zia once said: '…if someone loves you talk is chump change. Words spoken are easily forgotten. Letters are the true currency of love. And if things go bad, you can simply burn them.'

"Does he write well?"

"His letters …oh, they're magnificent, Renata. They are my treasures. They fill my heart."

"May I read one?"

She shook her head, and I understood. Some things are so intensely private, so powerful, that they simply cannot be shared.

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