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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. However, 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 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 that the owner could be identified except for the name Michael. Maybe if I called information, the operator could find a phone listing for the address on the envelope. "Operator," I began, 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
sixty years old?
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.
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