If you wrote a Valentine to the world, what would it say?

I would share a little story -- because everyone loves a good story -- and I would preface it with the following: 

Dear World,

Hang in there. Your happy ending is coming. Because regardless of your beliefs, your circumstances, your race, color and creed, or even your thoughts, words and actions, love never ceases to be active in transforming the world for the better. Furthermore, if you wish to accelerate this transformation, do your best to be like love -- to be compassionate, kind, patient, forgiving, and accepting -- and prepare yourself for miracles!

And now the story --

The  Wallet

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 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  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!"

"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."

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 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." 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. "

"Michael," 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.

Story by Arnold Fine

(A note about the author : Arnold Fine has been the Senior News Editor of The Jewish Press for over 50 years. At the same time, he was Coordinator of Special Education at Samuel Tilden High School in Brooklyn, caring for handicapped and brain-injured children. Since retiring from the City School System, Mr. Fine has worked as an Adjunct Professor in the Behavioral Science Department at Kingsborough College. He has been honored by the National Committee for the Furtherance of Jewish Education and the Jewish Teachers Association of New York State. He was also twice nominated as the "Teacher of the Year" in New York State. Arnold's stories have been published in the "Chicken Soup for the Soul" series, and have been translated into several languages. This story was first published in Reader's Digest in 1985. It has been circulating the web for many years and has been reported on many sites to be based on a true event that happened in Mr. Fine's life. I have contacted Mr. Fine to confirm or deny this -- but have yet to receive a response.)

I am grateful to my dear Gaian friend, Sharon Littledove, for bringing this story to my attention.