Love
will find a way
As I walked home one freezing
day, I stumbled on a wallet someone had lost in the street. I picked
it up and looked inside to find some identification so I could call the
owner. But the wallet contained only three dollars and a crumpled
letter that looked as if it had been in there for years.
The envelope was worn
and the only thing that was legible on it was the return address.
I started to open the letter, hoping to find some clue. Then I saw the
dateline--1924. The letter had been written almost sixty years ago.
It was written in a beautiful
feminine handwriting on powder blue stationery with a little flower in
the left-hand corner.
It was a "Dear John" letter
that told the recipient, whose name appeared to be Michael, that the writer
could not see him any more because her mother forbade it. Even so, she
wrote that she would always love him. It was signed, Hannah.
It was a beautiful letter,
but there was no way except for the name Michael, that the owner could
be identified. Maybe if I called information, the operator could
find a phone listing for the address on the envelope.
"Operator," I began, "this
is an unusual request. I'm trying to find the owner of a wallet that
I found. Is there anyway you can tell me if there is a phone number
for an address that was on an envelope in the wallet?"
She suggested I speak
with her supervisor, who hesitated for a moment then said,
"Well, there is a phone listing at that address, but I can't give you the
number." She said, as a courtesy, she would call that number, explain
my story and would ask them if they wanted her to connect me.
I waited a few minutes
and then she was back on the line. "I have a party who will speak
with you."
I asked the woman on the
other end of the line if she knew anyone by the name of Hannah. She
gasped, "Oh! We bought this house from a family who had a daughter
named Hannah. But that was 30 years ago!"
"Would you know where
that family could be located now?" I asked.
"I remember that Hannah
had to place her mother in a nursing home some years ago,"
the woman said. "Maybe if you got in touch with them they might
be able to track down the daughter."
She gave me the name
of the nursing home and I called the number.
They told me the old
lady had passed away some years ago but they did have a phone number for
where they thought the daughter might be living.
I thanked them and phoned.
The woman who answered explained that Hannah herself was now living in
a nursing home.
This whole thing was stupid,
I thought to myself. Why was I making such a big deal over finding
the owner of a wallet that had only three dollars and a letter that was
almost 60 years old?
Nevertheless, I called
the nursing home in which Hannah was supposed to be living and the man
who answered the phone told me, "Yes, Hannah is staying with us. "
Even though it was already
10 p.m., I asked if I could come by to see her. "Well," he said hesitatingly,
"if you want to take a chance, she might be in the day room watching television."
I thanked him and drove
over to the nursing home. The night nurse and a guard greeted me
at the door. We went up to the third floor of the large building.
In the day room, the nurse introduced me to Hannah.
She was a sweet, silver-haired
old timer with a warm smile and a twinkle in her eye.
I told her about finding
the wallet and showed her the letter. The second she saw the powder
blue envelope with that little flower on the left, she took a deep breath
and said, "Young man, this letter was the last contact I ever had with
Michael."
She looked away for a
moment deep in thought and then said Softly, "I loved him very much.
But I was only 16 at the time and my mother felt I was too young.
Oh, he was so handsome. He looked like Sean Connery, the actor."
"Yes," she continued.
"Michael Goldstein was a wonderful person. If you should find him,
tell him I think of him often. And," she hesitated for a moment,
almost biting her lip, "tell him I still love him. You know," she
said smiling as tears began to well up in her eyes, "I never did marry.
I guess no one ever matched up to Michael..."
I thanked Hannah and said
good-bye. I took the elevator to the first floor and as I stood by
the door, the guard there asked, "Was the old lady able to help you?"
I told him she had given
me a lead. "At least I have a last name. But I think I'll let it
go for a while. I spent almost the whole day trying to find the owner
of this wallet."
I had taken out the wallet,
which was a simple brown leather case with red lacing on the side.
When the guard saw it,
he said, "Hey, wait a minute! That's Mr. Goldstein's wallet.
I'd know it anywhere with that right red lacing. He's always
losing that wallet. I must have found it in the halls at least three
times."
"Who's Mr. Goldstein?"
I asked as my hand began to shake.
"He's one of the
old timers on the 8th floor. That's Mike Goldstein's wallet for sure.
He must have lost it on one of his walks."
I thanked the guard and
quickly ran back to the nurse's office. I told her what the guard
had said. We went back to the elevator and got on. I prayed
that Mr. Goldstein would be up.
On the eighth floor, the
floor nurse said, "I think he's still in the day room. He likes to
read at night. He's a darling old man."
We went to the only room
that had any lights on and there was a man reading a book.
The nurse went over to him and asked if he had lost his
wallet. Mr. Goldstein looked up with surprise, put his hand in his
back pocket and said, "Oh, it is missing!"
"This kind gentleman
found a wallet and we wondered if it could be yours?"
I handed Mr. Goldstein
the wallet and the second he saw it, he smiled with relief and said, "Yes,
that's it! It must have dropped out of my pocket this afternoon.
I want to give you a reward."
"No, thank you," I said.
"But I have to tell you something. I read the letter in the hope
of finding out who owned the wallet."
The smile on his face
suddenly disappeared. "You read that letter?"
"Not only did I read
it, I think I know where Hannah is."
He suddenly grew pale.
"Hannah? You know where she is? How is she? Is she still as
pretty as she was? Please, please tell me," he begged.
"She's fine...just as
pretty as when you knew her." I said softly.
The old man smiled with
anticipation and asked, "Could you tell me where she is? I want to
call her tomorrow." He grabbed my hand and said, "You know something,
mister, I was so in love with that girl that when that letter came, my
life literally ended. I never married. I guess I've always
loved her. "
"Mr. Goldstein," I said,
"come with me."
We took the elevator down
to the third floor. The hallways were darkened and only one
or two little night-lights lit our way to the day room where Hannah
was sitting alone watching the television. The nurse walked over
to her.
"Hannah," she said softly,
pointing to Michael, who was waiting with me in the doorway. "Do
you know this man?"
She adjusted her glasses,
looked for a moment, but didn't say a word. Michael said softly, almost
in a whisper, "Hannah, it's Michael. Do you remember me?"
She gasped, "Michael!
I don't believe it! Michael! It's you! My Michael!"
He walked slowly towards
her and they embraced. The nurse and I left with tears streaming
down our faces.
"See," I said.
"See how the Good Lord works! If it's meant to be, it will be."
About three weeks later
I got a call at my office from the nursing home. "Can you break away
on Sunday to attend a wedding? Michael and Hannah are going to tie
the knot!"
It was a beautiful wedding
with all the people at the nursing home dressed up to join in the
celebration. Hannah wore a light beige dress and looked beautiful.
Michael wore a dark blue suit and stood tall. They made me their
best man.
The hospital gave them
their own room and if you ever wanted to see a 76-year-old bride and a
79-year-old groom acting like two teenagers, you had to see this
couple.
A perfect ending for
a love affair that had lasted nearly 60 years.
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