When We Were 19, My Best Friend and I Promised That If We Were Both Single at 60, We’d Find Each Other – I Turned 60 Last Tuesday, and My Old Landline Rang

At first, distance didn’t change much.

We wrote constantly.

Long letters.

Birthday cards.

Pages filled with ordinary details that somehow felt important simply because they came from each other.

Jeffrey complained about his roommate, who apparently believed cleaning was optional.

I told him about working at the library while studying to become a teacher.

He complained about cafeteria food.

I complained about people

returning library books stained with coffee.

During that first year, I probably knew more about Jeffrey’s daily life than people who lived in his dorm.

Then slowly, the letters began arriving less often.

Every week became every two weeks.

Every two weeks became once a month.

I assumed college was changing him.

But my life was changing too.

I was training to become a teacher.

I made new friends.

I went on dates.

Still, whenever anything important happened, Jeffrey remained the first person I wanted to tell.

Then, during his second year, he wrote about someone named Margaret.

She was studying nursing.

He said she was funny.

Smart.

Strong-willed.

He even wrote that he thought I would like her.

That was when I finally understood something I should have realized years earlier.
I loved Jeffrey.

I sat on my bedroom floor holding his letter and cried.

Not because he had

done anything wrong.

But because I had waited until someone else came along before admitting the truth to myself.

That night, I began writing him a letter.

I wrote several pages.

I told him I loved him.

I told him I suspected I always had.

Then I tore the entire thing apart.

If Jeffrey was happy, I couldn’t bring myself to interfere.

So I continued being his friend.

Until the summer of 1986.

That was when his final letter arrived.

I knew something was wrong the moment I opened it.

Jeffrey usually began every letter with a joke.

This one began simply:

“Ruth,

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Margaret and I are getting married. The wedding is in August.”

I sat at the kitchen table staring at those words.

I kept reading.

He explained that the ceremony would be small and that Margaret’s family was helping them begin their life together.

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