It's raining on my fiftieth birthday. Feeling nostalgic, I sit down with Grandpa's letters from the First World War. The brittle paper must be unfolded very gently, and every year it yellows as the ink fades. Should I put it in an acid-free transparent sleeve? After I die, who will recognize the cramped hand?

I'm well aware of the horrors of the trenches, but when he writes to the woman who was to become his wife, he only tells her about the weather. Perhaps the censors were reading his letters to be sure no one gave away actionable intelligence. Perhaps he just didn't want her to worry.

war letters
it's raining also
on the front