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 anyway 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."
"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.



Each one of us has a love story...
Some known and some unknown...
but each unique in itself ...
some of them do complete ...
and some of them.. remain stories forever ...


--
hamza .. :)

The Golden Slippers...

It was only four days before Christmas. The spirit of the season
hadn't yet caught up with me, even though cars packed the parking lot
of our local discount store. Inside the store, it was worse. Shopping
carts and last minute shoppers jammed the aisles. Why did I come
today? I wondered. My feet ached almost as much as my head. My list
contained names of several people who claimed they wanted nothing but
I knew their feelings would be hurt if didn't buy them anything.
Buying for someone who had everything and
deploring the high cost of items, I considered gift- buying anything
but fun. Hurriedly, I filled my shopping cart with last minute items
and proceeded to the long checkout lines. I picked the shortest but it
looked as if it would mean at least a 20 minute wait.
In front of me were two small children - a boy of about 5 and a
younger girl. The boy wore a ragged coat. Enormously large, tattered
tennis shoes jutted far out in front of his much too short jeans. He
clutched several crumpled dollar bills in his grimy hands. The girl's
clothing resembled her brother's. Her head was a matted mass of curly
hair. Reminders of an evening meal showed on her small face. She
carried a beautiful pair of shiny, gold house slippers. As the
Christmas music sounded in the store's stereo system, the girl hummed
along, off-key but happily. When we finally approached the checkout
register, the girl carefully placed the shoes on the counter. She
treated them as though they were a treasure. The clerk rang up the
bill. "That will be $6.09," she said. The boy laid his crumpled
dollars atop the stand while he searched his pockets. He finally came
up with $3.12. "I guess we will have to put them back, " he bravely
said.
"We will come back some other time, maybe tomorrow." With that
statement, a soft sob broke from the little girl. "But Jesus would
have loved these shoes, " she cried. "Well, we'll go home and work
some more. Don't cry. We'll come back," he said.
Quickly I handed $3.00 to the cashier. These children had waited in
line for a long time. And, after all, it was Christmas. Suddenly a
pair of arms came around me and a small voice said, "Thank you sir."
"What did you mean when you said Jesus would like the shoes?" I asked.
The boy answered, "Our mommy is sick and going to heaven. Daddy said
she might go before Christmas to be with Jesus." The girl spoke, "My
Sunday school teacher said the streets in heaven are shiny gold, just
like these shoes." "Won't mommy be beautiful walking on those streets
to match these shoes?"
My eyes flooded as I looked into her tear streaked face. "Yes" I
answered, "I am sure she will." Silently I thanked God for using these
children to remind me of the true spirit of giving." 'Tis the Season!!
This was written in the Daily Mail by a very reknowned writer. It
followed that their mother was treated free of expenses in the Royal
hospital, London.

Remember that it's better to give than to receive...
No matter how cruel we might look from outside, there still exists a
tiny little space within the heart, that compels us to remain human in
every circumstance...
There is enormous love in every heart, but what matters is... who we
spend it on.. !!
Cheers to Humanity...
--
hamza .. :)