[b]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 60
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 anymore
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 oldtimer 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 goodbye. 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
bright 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 oldtimers 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.
THE END[/b]
