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| "Lady in a Garden" by Frederic Leighton |
(7 NOV 2012 – LOVE is not taught, not
learned, not earned, not bought, and not owned!
LOVE can prolong life or bring it to an abrupt end! LOVE can be a guiding light – a beacon in the
shadows of Life's shoals. The ebb and
flow of LOVE's tide is as a mist without substance and without constancy. LOVE's loss is felt for a lifetime -- its
scars never fully healed. Dorothy Hazel
Tarr)
LOVE comes to a precious few!
It may arrive softly as a whisper or as loud as a Heartbeat.
Love can sweep you off your feet as its wave of emotions
break over the shores of your Heart.
It may retreat with the turn of events and circumstance,
even as the tide retreats from the shore.
Tangled barriers scarred over by tears and years can hinder
or prevent Love's triumphant return!
The wounds of Love Lost cannot be healed in Time's
Mortality!
For some Love comes only once!
For some Love comes not again!
For some Love never finds its way!
By: Dorothy Hazel Tarr
 |
| "The Awakening of Spring" by Csok Istvan, 1900 |
Below is a poem written by my maternal
cousin Emily Elizabeth Dickinson. Emily
never married during her life – but she did have the Love of Family and
Friends. She experienced much from loss
and grief, and felt the scars of pain and illness.
 |
| "Morning Sun" by Harold Knight |
Each Scar I'll keep for Him
Instead I'll say of Gem
In His long Absence worn
A Costlier one
But every Tear I bore
Were He to count o'er
His own would fall so more
I'll mis sum them.
Poem
#877 by Emily Elizabeth Dickinson, written about age 34, an American poet, born in Amherst,
Massachusetts (born December 10, 1830 – died May 15, 1886).
---------------
Below is a short story – a tale of
LOVE that blossomed in youth and flowered in TIME. I found the story on the Internet – its author
is unknown to me and seems to have been written over 40 years ago. It touched the tender places in my Heart – I hope
it touches yours!
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“The Letter -- The Lost Wallet”
 |
| "A City Park" by William Merritt Chase |
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
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 any way 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!”
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.”
 |
| "Absence Makes the Heart Grow Fonder" by Marcus Stone |
“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 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.”
 |
| "A Contemplative Moment" by Stephen Lewin |
“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.
- Anonymous
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