At any rate， my love for Rachel remained unrequited. We graduated from high school， she went on to college， and I joined the Army. When World War II engulfed us， I was sent overseas. For a time we corresponded， and her letters were the highlight of those grinding， endless years. Once she sent me a snapshot of herself in a bathing suit， which drove me to the wildest of fantasies. I mentioned the possibility of marriage in my next letter， and almost immediately her replies became less frequent， less personal.
The first thing I did when I returned to the States was to call on Rachel. Her mother answered the door. Rachel no longer lived there. She had married a medical student she’d met in college. “I thought she wrote to you.” her mother said.
Her“Dear John” letter finally caught up with me while I was awaiting discharge. She gently explained the impossibility of a marriage between us. Looking back on it， I must have recovered rather quickly， although for the first few months I believed I didn’t want to live. Like Rachel， I found someone else， whom I learned to love with a deep and permanent commitment that has lasted to this day.
Then， recently， after an interval of more than 40 years， I heard from Rachel again. Her husband had died. She was passing through town and had learned of my whereabouts through a mutual friend. We agreed to meet.
I felt both curious and excited. In the last few years， I hadn’t thought about her， and her sudden call one morning had taken me aback. The actual sight of her was a shock. This white-haired matron at the restaurant table was the Rachel of my dreams and desires， the supple mermaid of that snapshot？
Yet time had given us a common reference and respect. We talked as old friends， and quickly discovered we were both grandparents.
“Do you remember this？” She handed me a slip of worn paper. It was a poem I’d written her while still in school. I examined the crude meter and pallid rhymes. Watching my face， she snatched the poem from me and returned it to her purse， as though fearful I was going to destroy it.