Dear Olivia

(5 years later)
The road itself short and straight to its point; hardly less purposeful than those that surround it. The road is lined with oak trees, ferns, and white fences to keep the horses confined and off of the road, limited in its distance, and limitless in its purpose. I pull my little car off to the side of the dirt road, wait a moment for the dust to settle, turn off the engine, exit my car, and walk slowly toward the little stone wall lining the shoulder of the dirt road. I lift one leg over, followed by the other, and catch myself with my cane. I pull the letter out of my back pocket and read it once more for reassurance, or maybe just to continue these few moments with the thought in the back of my mind that this all may just be an illusion or hallucination and I'm crazy. Maybe I'm somewhere else at this moment, drinking coffee in New York, or riding a bicycle through the streets of London. Or, then again, maybe I'm right where I am, next to this wooden gate lining this country road. Spring is just around the corner, and the mixture of the sun on my face and the brisk breeze flows around my skin. My nose tingles.
Leaves blow across the road and the only sounds interrupting the silence are the hooves of the horses dancing around their enclosure and a motorbike in the distance. I awkwardly try to keep my balance on the dirt and rocks below me, and make my way over to the far side of the coral. I lay my shoulder bag next to the oak tree and carefully search for carving that she had once described.
"Follow the dirt road that circles the lake, take a right at the old barn, and just keep going dead straight until you reach the horse coral. On the far side of the fence sits a lonely oak tree where I carved my initials when I was just a kid. I buried something in that spot. If anything is to happen to me, I want you to have it."
I remembering trying to ease the mood by laughing it off, and making some comment about cliches. But, here I am, sitting under this tree, digging for messages from a life ended too soon. Maybe the basis of comparison is skewed. Maybe we just live too long.
I lean my cane against the tree and slowly lower myself to my knees, and begin digging with the hand shovel that I brought with me. As the shovel sinks into the earth, each scoop my curiosity growing and heart racing, I feel the steel hit something hard. I toss the shovel aside and begin to dig with my hands, carefully removing the soil from around the sides of the box. I remove it from the earth and brush off the lid. I unhook the latch, and as the rusty hinges grind together the lid opens. The setting sunlight shines into the box and onto the scraps of paper folded and crammed inside. I unfold the first piece of paper and realize that she had saved every single letter I had ever sent her, in order, and intact. However, there was more than just letters from myself. As I continue reading, pieces of paper strewn around me, I come upon a letter and my eyes quickly scan 'Dear Olivia,' and 'Love Always, Daniel S,' and it is now that I realize what she had been trying to elude to me all along. Our grandparents loved each other, and until now, no one knew.
A black and white photograph of a house I'd never seen, my grandfather and a lovely lady kissing on the porch, lay upon the folded pieces of paper, and on the back written in pencil, December 1942. I lift my head for a moment and notice a flurry of birds shifting direction with the breeze. My eyes follow the birds to the horizon where I notice an abandoned structure just down the road from the horse corral. I pick up my cane and begin heading in that direction, the horses curiously trotting after me. The dirt and rocks crunch under my leather shoes and the house slowly comes into view, the picture still in my hand. As I walk faster toward the house, past the oak trees and overgrown grass, I approach the porch and force the window open. The house is empty but I can feel a familiarity that I can't quite put my finger on. Simona's grandmother was as lovely as she is, and my grandfather knew it. He sent her letters until the day he died, and not wanting to ruin a beautiful thing with superstitions, Simona was aware all along, and never said a word. Olivia moved on with her life and married, had beautiful children who bore beautiful grandchildren, one of them, the most beautiful woman I had ever known. These were my grandfather's wishes, and I suppose I'll do the same. I suppose this is nature's way of getting even.