Fifty Years

Dear Halina,

Fifty years. Can you believe it? Fifty years since we were two girls writing letters across the sea, and here I am, still holding a pen.

I am sorry I haven't written since the spring. I have been unwell, and honestly, I felt disappointed in my own slow hands. But I have kept every letter you ever sent me. They are in a wooden box on my desk, and last week I read them all again.

We used to write about boys and exams. Now we write about doctors and grandchildren. I am not sad about that. I am grateful. Most people lose their childhood friends. We never did.

You once asked me if I was ever afraid of growing old. I am not, and I think you are the reason. Knowing that someone far away remembers the girl I used to be makes me calm. It makes me confident that those years were real.

I am glad we never met in person. Is that strange? If we had met, perhaps we would have argued about small things, like everyone does. Instead, we stayed perfect friends on paper for half a century.

Write back when your hands allow it. There is no hurry. After fifty years, I have learned how to wait.

With all my love,

Maria