Sad news - childhood memories. . . . . . . . .

I left my home in England at what now seems such a young age. It was one week 

before I turned 19. Boarding that plane at Heathrow airport was my window 

to an exciting adventure which was to be short and sweet before returning home

 and settling down. However, the one year I expected to stay and

 work in the USA (Washington, D.C.) has now turned into fifty five! I still feel a pull

 to my original home across the pond, and guess I always will.

This Christmas season, as always, I sat for many hours spread over several days,

 writing cards. I love sending and receiving real cards for birthdays, special occasions, 

and definitely at Christmas. 

The cards I send to the UK have become a much smaller bundle now - many 

older family members and friends now gone, and my only sibling lives in France.

 I write a note inside, affix the international postage stamp, a holiday return

 address label, and address each one with thoughts of them eventually being

 dropped through a letter box across the pond.

 Most of these people reply with a lovely card - always lots of chubby English

 robins perched on holly, thatched cottages with lighted windows and such - but

 for several years I haven't heard back from my friend Carol, who was

 my next door neighbor for eleven of my special childhood years.

We shared the same birthday, she being a year younger, and many hours 

together doing what little girls do such as sewing and dressing our dolls. We spent

 hours on the beach after school, her mum meeting us with our swimsuits, towels

 and tomato sandwiches. We used to meet up now and then when I visited

 home and my family still lived next door to her family. The last time I

saw her was at my mother's funeral almost 15 years ago.  

People move a lot now. A card went off to Somerset as always in early

 December hoping it would reach her. . . . . a note enclosed saying how I missed
 hearing from her and hoped she would get in touch.

A couple of days ago I opened my e-mail and was heartbroken to read one
 from her older son, Andrew, whom I've not seen since he was a boy.

 He had received my card, forwarded by the post office, in which I'd tucked
 my e-mail address, and told me of his mum's death last year after his dad had
 also died  - both of them devastated over the loss of their younger son, a
 lifetime diabetic.
 He wrote such a nice note and attached some lovely photos. 
He apologized for not getting in touch earlier - apparently Carol's address book
 disappeared when she moved to a care home following her husband's death,
 and she had Parkinson's disease - and said he'd like to hear back from me.

One certainly pauses after news such as this, wondering when, how, why, we
  ourselves, will eventually die. I am so sad at the news, but also grateful that 
Andrew took the time to write to me. . . . . . . .and of course I will be writing back
 to him and sharing some of the history his dear mum and I shared as children.