Ardain Isma
CSMS Magazine
“There was a time when love did not rush to be declared.
It waited—patiently—inside a letter, a walk at dusk, a word chosen with care.
And in that waiting, it learned how to last.”
In an age of endless notifications and insatiable thirst for information—consumed almost as quickly as it appears—many people find themselves quietly longing for something slower, more deliberate, and infinitely more human. Especially among those who lived in a bygone era, when courtship missives were not quaint curiosities but sacred seals of intention, there is a growing nostalgia for a form of love that required patience, skill, and reverence. Back then, words were not fired off impulsively; they were chosen, weighed, and entrusted to paper, carrying with them the dignity of intention and the gravity of feeling.
There was a time when a letter could change the course of a life. When a carefully folded page, scented faintly with cologne or pressed flowers, marked the true beginning of a romance. Those who mastered the art of writing—who knew how to infuse magic into sentences and breathe emotion into ink—held an undeniable advantage in the treacherous, beautiful game of love. It was not manipulation; it was craftsmanship. And love, in those days, rewarded craftsmanship.
Thomas and Armelle often dream of that time now, sitting side by side in the quiet comfort of their later years. They speak of their youth with a gentleness reserved for things that mattered deeply, when time seemed endless and love was not a delicacy traded for fleeting promises or hollow assurances. Love was a treasure—fragile, luminous, and worth protecting. A handwritten note slipped at the crepuscule, a moonlit promenade along a dusty road, a lingering glance, a shy squint of the eye—these were not preludes to something more; they were enough. They were love, whole and sufficient.
Thomas and Armelle have been married for fifty-two years. Together, they raised two children who, in different ways, carry the imprint of that enduring union: Eglantine, now a respected pediatrician whose compassion mirrors her mother’s tenderness, and Dupervil, a playwright whose sensitivity to language echoes his father’s devotion to words. Their marriage was not immune to hardship—no long life together ever is—but it was anchored in a shared understanding that love is built, not consumed.
Their story began in Anse-à-Foleur, a small Haitian town nestled along the foothills of Saint Anne, overlooking the northern frontiers of the Northwest province. It was a place where the land met the sea with quiet dignity, and where life unfolded at a pace that allowed hearts to recognize one another. Armelle, caramel-hued and slender, carried the unmistakable bearing of innocence—not ignorance, but openness. Thomas was tall, broad-framed, and walked with long, confident strides, like a young warrior certain of his direction. Yet it was not his physical presence that captured Armelle’s heart.
It was his manner with words.
Thomas spoke as he wrote—with intention. His phrases were neither extravagant nor empty. They were real. He listened as carefully as he spoke, and when he wrote to Armelle, his letters did not attempt to conquer her; they invited her. He did not promise the world. He described what he felt, plainly and beautifully. Armelle would later tell her friends that it was not charm that won her over, but sincerity shaped by language. Words, when treated with respect, had the power to reveal a soul.
Today, Thomas and Armelle are retired, living in Cutler Ridge, a quiet Southern Florida town near Miami. Their days are unhurried. They take walks. They reread old letters, the paper yellowed but the meaning undimmed. They reminisce—not with regret, but with gratitude. What they mourn is not their youth, but the disappearance of a certain way of loving: one that allowed desire to ripen, emotion to deepen, and commitment to emerge naturally from shared time.
Their story feels almost radical now. In a culture that prizes immediacy, Thomas and Armelle remind us that love once required waiting—and that waiting was not a burden, but a gift. Their fifty-two years together stand as quiet testimony to the idea that when love is given time, language, and respect, it does not fade. It endures.
Forever written. Forever remembered.
Note: Ardain Isma is a university professor, novelist, essayist, and scholar. He serves as Chief Editor of CSMS Magazine and leads Village Care Publishing, an indie press dedicated to multicultural and social-justice-oriented literature. His works include Midnight at Noon, Bittersweet Memories of Last Spring, Last Spring was Bittersweet and The Cry of a Lone Bird – his latest novel which explores resilience, love, and the enduring quest for human dignity.
