Fifty Years of Letters

Journal

He'd never flown before. At eighty-one, he flew to meet his pen pal of fifty years.

In 1976, Arthur answered a pen-pal ad in the back of a magazine. A girl in Scotland wrote back. They never stopped.

Fifty years of letters. Her wedding. His. Her grandchildren. His. They knew everything about each other — except what the other looked like.

Last month, Arthur did something he'd never done. He bought a plane ticket. 'I'm eighty-one,' he said. 'If not now, never.'

At the gate, a woman stood holding a book. The same dictionary he'd been carrying for fifty years. They'd both brought it.

They stared. They laughed. Then they hugged like they'd done it a thousand times. In a way, they had.

They talked for six hours straight. 'You sound exactly like your letters,' she said. 'So do you,' he said. 'So do you.'

Fifty years. One flight. Some friendships don't need a face. Just a stamp.