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 letters were how you talked to someone far away, for just a couple of pennies a stamp. Because of this, when he got up around noon this day and peeked out the blinds and saw the little black flag raised on his green mailbox, he was filled with both curiosity and apprehension.

He thought about checking it later, maybe popping some Eggos into the toaster and brewing some coffee, but that thought made his stomach turn after the night he'd had, and he thought maybe a walk would ease it enough to get the day started.

Still in his pyjamas, he shuffled to his slippers and brushed his fingers through his hair to make sure he wasn’t completely reading as the curmudgeon of the neighbourhood. The sun was bright, and thankfully, the wind was blowing, keeping the walk to the mailbox from being unbearable. When he opened the mailbox, he was startled. Inside was a 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 an old widower a pink envelope? But pulling it out of the box, right in the middle above his correct address, was his name. The sender was an oddball, he thought, for their name was merely written as Beth. He didn't know mononymous Beth.

When he got inside his home, 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 an image of something he'd heard of called a glitter bomb, a prank or possibly an attack of filling an envelope with small plastic glitter so that, when opened carelessly, the receiver had an explosion of glitter rain onto their floor. Landing on hardwood or tile is a pain, but manageable. On carpet, and one would anticipate finding it constantly until either they move or they rip up the carpet. He placed it next to his head and shook it. No sound of loose confetti, but he couldn't be certain if mononymous Beth was the type to think of that.

Because of this, he moved into the kitchen where there was tile and reached out so the envelope was over the sink. He wasn't sure how a garbage disposal would do with glitter, but he knew how to clear a pipe. Opening the envelope, he was relieved when no colours poured out of the opening, and he could bring it close again. From it, he withdrew the contents, three pages of lined paper with handwritten print. It was a letter, and the first words 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 named Mike 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, in spite of what he claimed, was love. The only man who'd love me was you, College boy, and I threw you out let you go.

I divorced from Mike when my youngest was six. Everyone told me I couldn't be a single mother and how was I going to support them. 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 after Mike. 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 got licensed as 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've had girl friends, most from work, over the years who I've had tons of good moments with. I retired a long time ago, so I see fewer people, but I still have a bowling team. We are actually pretty good for a bunch of ladies born when the only President Johnson had been from North Carolina, not Texas.

I know you know how that is. I saw the obituary when I looked up your name. 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, hang up my bowling jersey, and be on the next flight.

Love forever,

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 more gentle 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, begged to take him back for months. He picked up the device Beth joked he might not understand and brought up the phone app. He carefully pressed his pointer finger to each of the ten digits in 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 Beth, who never forgot him. The thing was, though, that he didn't know this mother of three, grandma of six, retired paralegal and occasional bowler. 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 with the same name and social security number as sweetie belle Beth.

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 Henry's letter, and that boy was too far away for stamps to cover.