Dear College Boy

Henry never got letters, and really, this wasn't a surprise because no one got letters anymore. Henry sometimes felt USPS was funded solely by utility companies and political funds, neither of which he wanted. But he was old enough to remember when sending a message across the country was cheapest when one paid a few pennies for a stamp and wrote a letter. Because of this, when he saw an envelope lying by his front door, slipped through when the mail carrier, he was filled with both curiosity and apprehension.

Still in his pyjamas at noon, he shuffled to the door and lifted the thick, pink envelope. He was almost certain it had been intended for a neighbour, maybe a birthday card for a little girl. Who would send a widower a pink envelope? But turning it over in his shaking fingers, he read his address and name. The sender was an oddball, he thought, for the return address merely had been written as being from Beth.

He marvelled at the envelope. It had two stamps on it because of its girth. Surely if it were something important, it could have been sent in one of those flat-rate envelopes instead of being folded up and crammed. His mind flashed to glitter bombs, but why would mononymous Beth want to do that? He opened it and withdrew the contents, three pages of lined paper with handwritten print. The first words he saw unleashed a flood of memories.

Dear College Boy,

I'm sure it's been a while since someone's called you that. Probably as long as it's been since you called me Sweetie Belle. I'm sorry. That's not a good way to start off, but I'm afraid that if I start over, I'll lose the nerve. I've been trying to write this letter for five years, but every time I finish a draft, I read it and think I sound selfish. I am, aren't I?

Anyways, I hope you've been well. I see from looking you up on Facebook that you have moved into your daddy's place. If he is still alive, tell him Elizabeth says hello. Who am I kidding, though? At our age, it's a miracle we're alive. Those photos you have of the backyard on the Fourth almost made me cry. I remember playing Cowboys and Indians with you and using that big oak as a horse. I'm glad it's still up and strong.

I'm stalling. What I'm writing to say is I'm sorry. Sixty years ago, I made the biggest mistake of my life when I said I never wanted to see you again. I thought when you said you didn't want kids with me that you were saying I wasn't the type of girl you'd want as a wife. I'm sure you remember how my mother was. She taught me to seek a husband, not the love of my life.

After you, that's what I did. I found a man who wanted a wife, and I gave him that. He wanted to live in Oklahoma, and we moved there. He wanted two kids, and I did him one better. He wanted a nanny, a maid, a chef, and a whore, and I gave him everything I had. The one thing he didn't want, despite what he claimed, was love. The only man who loved me was you, College Boy, and I threw you out let you go.

I divorced that man when my youngest was six. Everyone told me a single mother can't support three kids. They said it was selfish. Well, we've established that to be true already, haha.

I got a job as a waitress for a while until I got into a local college program. It's funny, right? I called you "College Boy" as a lark, and I turned into a "college girl." Not that anyone called me that. I didn't date anymore. I knew the risks of dating thanks to him, and I'd begun to finally see how lucky I'd been when I had you.

Anyways, I became a paralegal, and despite a little harassment, I actually could finally start to buy the kids' clothes and toiletries without talking to their father, right in time for my daughter's teenhood.

Don't get me wrong, I love my children. They were my reason for getting through those classes. But once they left the house, it became empty. They went to college, found spouses and gave me six grandbabies, one of whom is starting his own family. But without a partner, the house has been so quiet.

I know you know how that is. I saw her obituary. I'm sorry for your loss, Henry. Your Facebook doesn't have any pictures of other women, even five years later. Perhaps she was your soul mate, the love of your life. I hope she was. That would genuinely be ok with me. But I guess I just hope you have any love left over for me.

I want to be with you, College Boy. In the final years of our lives, I can't help but think there would be nothing better than to move back to my hometown and make up for all this time we should have had. Could have had it if I'd only seen it back then.

Maybe you won't receive this letter, or maybe you will throw this away. I don't expect an answer, and this will be my only shot in the dark. If you don't want to see me again, please don't respond, actually. That would only break my heart. But if you do, you need only send me a postcard with "Yes," and I will sell this house, bid my friends adieu, and be on the next flight there.

Love,

Your Sweetie Belle

P.S. Here is my number if you know how to work it haha

Henry had tears in his eyes. He'd thought of Beth, too, over the years, though not nearly to the degree she seemed to. He remembered well that night when he dropped her off after a college party. He could have been gentler when she asked what he saw for their future, but he'd had a few too many beers, and she'd sounded casual with the question. He hadn't wanted kids, and she did. In the fifty years he spent with Martha, they had never even tried for kids, and though he wished a part of her was still on Earth, he wouldn't have traded the years he spent with her for any girl.

Beth hadn't just been any girl. She was the girl. The girl he played with as early in life as he could remember. The first girl he ever kissed. The girl his father had always assumed he'd marry—the girl who, yes, he begged to take him back for months. Henry picked up the device Beth joked he might not understand and began to type the digits of her number until he was one button press away from hearing her voice, even if it would be the answering machine.

Something kept his pointer from pressing the green button, though. Who was she? It seemed like a silly question. She's Beth, Sweetie Belle, who never forgot him. But more recently, she became a mother of three, grandma of six, and retired paralegal. It wasn't about looks either. Lord knew Henry wasn't the same strapping young College Boy she'd last seen. They would have been just as old if they had stayed together. The thing was that he knew what sixty years meant for the changing of a soul. If they'd stayed together, all those changes would have been gradual and easily explained, like watching paint being applied to a canvas. But she was a completed painting, hanging on a wall, unrecognizable from the canvas. She was a stranger who shared the same name and Social Security number as Sweetie Belle.

He appreciated the letter, though. Maybe he should have written one back, filling her in on his life. He didn't, though, because she was expecting College Boy's letter, and that boy was too far for stamps to cover.