A long time ago, when the world was a much different place than it is today, I moved into a house in a town called Orange, California. I was six years old and my mother decided that she wanted to move back into the house she had grown up in and she scooped up my younger brother, all our things, and my six-year-old self into our station wagon and we rolled off into the California sunshine.
My father had died right after my brother Liam was born 4 years after me. It was a bright July day in Nebraska and I was off in the wide world exploring when my parents told me that my father was sick with cancer. I was too young to fully understand of course, but a month later my father was gone.
Like I said though, my brother and I were too young to understand. So Mom moved us out further west. Her parents had died when she had married Dad but she had still kept their house.
We moved in and it was like living in a fairytale. The wall-paper was old and wonderful and you could kind of hear stories in the walls.
A few years went by full of happiness in the cozy little house and soon enough I was seventeen, almost eighteen, and moving out on my own. I went to the attic once to search for things forgotten that I might need anytime soon and came across a box in the corner that was a darker brown than all the other ones in it. Inside were all sorts of nick-nacks including a music box and pieces of jewelry. Underneath all the jewelry were letters upon letters. I picked one up and started reading. It was from my granfather and sent to my grandmother during the First World War. I riffled through, flipping from one letter to the next, and realized that each letter was written a day after the other...
Created: Jul 24, 2010Document Media