Junk Drawer

Most of Gran’s house has been cleared; a lifetime of possessions and memories scattered throughout the family or donated to charity shops. I’ve inherited the bureau. She let me rummage through all of it when I was little - except one drawer, which she kept locked at all times.
‘What’s in it, Gran?’
‘Just bits and bobs. Some bits have sharp edges that will cut delicate skin, so no prying, young lady .’
The key slides into the lock and turns with a satisfying click. Thrust inside I find scraps of fabric, tins containing needles and pins, a jar of buttons, and half used spools of cotton. The ephemera of her crafting life. Why did she feel the need to keep it locked?
Then I find them. Pushed to the back is a bundle of letters, tied with thin red ribbon. I untie the bow and slide the letters letter out. They’re love letters, written throughout her sixty years of marriage to my lovely grandad.
‘My darling Maria, I should have asked for your hand first, but I’m glad that your marriage didn’t end our love. My heart is yours always, Bob.’
Reading them breaks my heart. My Grandad’s name was Stan.