“Hello, Baby,” he writes. “When I came in this morning I put your picture in my locker and as I open the door there you are looking right at me. The fellows saw your picture and asked who you were. They couldn’t get over you in that picture so I had to get a cop and chase them away. … You look so real at times I want to kiss you but I’d rather wait till I come home.” He thanks her for the present, a slim silver Dunhill lighter that she bought on time at a jewelry store. “Every time I light a cigarette, I always think of you.”

I know from old photos that my handsome dad took her to the prom in his dress uniform, but it seems that she was still holding back her affections. Weeks later, he says: “I’m pretty sure I know what those three words are that you have in your mind, suppose you tell me what they are.”

Some sort of fight followed, because by February, he’s asking her forgiveness. It’s snowing, a whole year has passed since that first letter, and he tells her about an old church burning down near Schenectady. “The fire was so great you could see it from miles away.” It’s the perfect metaphor for what’s happening to their courtship and he plays it for all it’s worth.

“Whatever I said to make you feel bad, please forgive me. I still love you. In fact I love you more now than I did before.” He signs off by asking desperately, “Do you love me? Why?”

It’s the “why?” that really killed me. My father, so strong and silent all the time, was this sensitive, insecure soul inside his Marine blues and later, that warehouse uniform. Now that I knew him better, I missed and grieved for him even more. I wanted him here to draw him out and laugh with. And cry with. I dried my eyes and read on.

In April, he’s counting the days — 135 — until he comes home for good. In May, he tells her about a car accident. “One of the guys is still unconscious and we don’t know if he’s going to pull through.”

The near death experience has rattled him. “You’re in my mind so much I can’t think of anything else. … I want you to believe me because I love you and you probably know that by now. … But I’m not sure whether you love me. The reason I say that is because of the last letter. I don’t have to repeat it because you’re the one who wrote the letter.”