Jim took the next week off work and spent most of his days downstairs with Mrs. Castellani, talking about life and love. On the first day he thought very briefly about telling her the story, but he knew that even a romantic like her wouldn’t believe him. Instead, he made up a few white lies that allowed him to talk honestly and openly with her.

At the end of the week, they were sitting in the living room, drinking tea and waiting for Mr. Castellani to get home from his Knights of Columbus meeting, when Jim decided to again bring up the subject of love.

Mrs. Castellani switched the television channel and picked up her knitting. “You know, Fred will be home soon. You can go have some fun.”

“No, I like sitting with you,” Jim said. “Besides, I don’t really feel like going out tonight.”

“Is something bothering you?” Mrs. Castellani asked. “You haven’t seemed yourself lately.”

Jim shrugged. “I guess I’ve been thinking a lot lately. I... sort of broke up with somebody. Not really because we wanted to, but, uh, she was moving pretty far away, so it just wasn’t going to work.”

“I’m sorry,” Mrs. Castellani said. “But you know what they say - everything happens for a reason.”

“Yeah,” Jim said softly. After a moment, he continued, “How did you know you wanted to marry Mr. Castellani?”

Mrs. Castellani chuckled. “Well, it was… well, I don’t know. I mean, I was in love with him. He wasn’t like the other boys I had dated. We just had something special.”

“Do you think you can have that something special with more than one person?” Jim asked.

“I suppose,” Mrs. Castellani replied. “But I think that there’s that one person out there for everyone. There can be a lot of second bests, sure, and you can make it work with them, but… well, I don’t know. I’m just an old lady who’s old fashioned.”

“I like old fashioned,” Jim said.

Mrs. Castellani smiled and patted his knee. “Don’t worry, dear. You’ll find her.”

“I hope so,” Jim replied quietly.

Later, after Mr. Castellani returned home, Jim went back to his apartment and sat at the desk. As he reached for the handle of the final drawer, he felt sick to his stomach. He figured that Pam would write him a final good-bye, pages and pages of flowing words about love and loss.

When he slid the drawer open, he got a surprise. There was no envelope in the drawer. Instead, he found a photograph. He lifted it carefully out of the drawer and looked at it closely.

A young woman with curly hair, about his age, was smiling brightly at him. She was sitting on an old bench with ornately carved legs. Her hair was piled neatly on top of her head, leaving her delicate neck exposed, and she wore a fat string of pearls. Long, matching earrings brushed against her jaw. Her dress was simple and hung about her loosely but didn’t hide her figure. Her slender legs were crossed at the ankles, her right foot rubbing at the back of her left, and a large Casablanca lily rested in her lap. Her graceful fingers gripped at the edge of the bench as he imagined they might also curl around a paintbrush. Her eyes sparkled like she was sharing a secret with him.

On the bottom of the photograph was her familiar handwriting: I’ll never forget.

Jim traced his index finger along her face and handwriting. He couldn’t believe this was the end. What was he going to do with himself now?

He carefully set the photo down and opened the first drawer. He was out of stationery, envelopes and stamps, but he still had the pen. He took out a piece of paper from a pack he had stolen from work and pressed the pen to the paper.

The pen wouldn’t write.

Jim shook the pen and tried again. Nothing. It was out of ink. He clenched his jaw and threw the pen down.

He took a few deep breaths then picked up the photo again.

He spoke to the photo, “Everything happens for a reason.”

Four months after he opened the last drawer, while he was out shopping for a new frame for the photo Pam had given him, Jim realized that she had one last opportunity to communicate with him.

He purchased a frame and drove back to his apartment, his mind buzzing with excitement.

While he framed the photo and hung it on the wall above the desk, he told himself not to get too excited. Maybe Pam hadn’t come to the same conclusion as he had, maybe the idea had never come to her, or maybe she had dismissed it. She had had the rest of her life to forget about him and his letters. He liked to believe that she always slept with his photo in her pillow case, but he knew that was asking a lot. A lot of life can happen in fifty years.

He thought briefly of going to the historical society or the library to try and look her up and see what she had done with her life, but he was too afraid. He knew he couldn’t bear to see her life broken down to “she was born, and she died.” Or worse, what if she hadn’t been happy?

A week after his realization, he had made progress. There was only one logical step left, and he decided that today would be the day.

To calm his nerves, Jim sat in front of the desk and stared up at the photo. He thought for a moment before pulling open the first drawer of the desk. He pulled out a crisp new sheet of paper and an ordinary Bic pen, then began writing.

Dear Pam,

I know this won’t reach you, but I hope you know:

You were loved.

He folded the letter without signing it then tucked it into an envelope and sealed it. He stood, slid the envelope into his back pocket, and grabbed his keys.

The cemetery was quiet and hushed, as if the universe had intended to mould their last private moment. Jim wandered for hours, inspecting each grave marker carefully for any indication that he was in the right spot.

Finally, as dusk was settling, he found it. It was rather unassuming and a cluster of leaves were covering most of it, but he was sure he had found her.

PAMELA MORGAN BEESLY
1897 - 1977

He carefully brushed away the leaves, and found a phrase inscribed underneath the dates:

I NEVER FORGOT.

Jim smiled sadly and pulled the envelope from his pocket then gingerly set it next to the marker.

“Neither will I,” he said softly.