The crevasse

I found a box of old letters
Handwritten and yellowed
I thought I could still smell her perfume
She signed not with love but with a lipstick kiss
And just a single initial, R

His were in there, too
Gruffer, more perfunctory
Smelling only of aged paper
Written in capitals to her cursive
Signed with love, Peter

She talks about missing him
How her days stretch long before her without him near
Her irritations with the typing pool and her sister's upcoming wedding

He talks about ice and cold, hard work
He encloses a penguin feather
A bundle of rusty nails held together with twine
The letter says "Shackleton's hut"
There is a photo of him in chunky white boots
One knee to the tundra
Looking steely into the lens

Either she never sent him anything more than words
Or he kept them
Hid them from commanding officers and other soldiers alike

I arranged and read them in chronological order
I wanted to feel what they were feeling
Across continents and time
They longed in the ways they knew how
Some of his were blacked out
Intercepted by censors
Sensitive information that couldn't be shared

I didn't notice that the last one wasn't in his writing
Nor in hers
But someone else's
"We regret to inform you..."