Her name was Sylvetta. The boys all called her “Legs.” She was born and raised in the middle of North America, practically nowhere. Nowhere that you've ever heard of, anyway.

When the Japanese attacked Pearl Harbor, the boys all went off to war. There wasn't much for a girl to do in a small town, even when it wasn't absent of young men.

Sylvetta heard there was work to be had in Seattle. She could be another Rosy the Riveter. It sounded more than patriotic, kind of romantic. The war effort needed her, and she needed the money. So she caught a bus west in search of destiny, or, at least, a paycheck.

The work was hot and hard. The sparks burned her legs right through her socks. A manager looked kindly upon her and she was granted a transfer to some sort of clerical work. She had a pretty face. No sense in hiding that behind a welding mask and it would be a shame to leave burns on those legs.

On her off days she enjoyed the bustling life of Seattle as it boomed in the demand for war material. She met a nice, tall, handsome sailor from England. His name was Ronald. He was stationed there, and, if his luck held out, he wouldn't have to see combat.

They took a liking to one another and spent as much of their free time together as they could manage. It was young love, but it was also something more. Maybe Sylvetta didn't know what it was then, but she never did forget.

When the war ended and many of the boys returned, some of them more alive than others, Ronald got his orders and shipped out back to mother England. Sylvetta returned to that small town in North Dakota, where the winters are colder than even the loneliest of hearts.

They promised to keep in touch, but it's a difficult stretch to reach across an ocean and half a continent. The letters arrived less frequently. Eventually they stopped entirely.

Sylvetta married another man, but it wasn't to last. There was no divorce. Annulment is more appropriate to matrimony of such short duration. She never spoke of him. Preferred to pretend he never existed. That says a lot, when you know what the others did.

Yes, Sylvetta married again. And again. And again. She never stopped believing in love.

It's nice to think that each one represents some sort of an upgrade from the previous, but in some ways each one was all too much the same. They drank, probably too much. They disappeared for days at a time, who knows where. They beat her when she complained. Sylvetta wasn't shy about complaining.

Not knowing how to handle such a strong-willed woman, they struck her with their fists when they couldn't find the words. They thought violence would demonstrate power, if not courage.

Then they died. First one. Then another. Heart attacks, like so many other uptight bastards.

Then she was alone. For a long time.

She worked in Social Services, counseling other women who where battered and afraid, or hiding in bottles of booze or pills. She watched, day after day, as they dragged their screaming children into the office and attempted to explain. Their tired eyes said enough on most days.

Despite her own hardship, and the second-hand hell she had at work, she still had thoughts of love.

She thought about Ron. Wondered where he might be. Wondered what he might be doing. Wondered if he might be thinking the same thing about her.

Thirty-eight years had passed since they had said goodbye. So much had happened in that time.

She had three daughters. One she had returned to Seattle to give up for adoption. She never told. It was a secret. But, secrets have their way of being found out, despite our best efforts at concealment.

Her middle daughter wanted to know more about this missing sister, but Sylvetta refused to say a word. She was determined to take that secret to the grave, no matter who knew what. She was stubborn like that. She held onto things, when they were important.

She held on to Ron's letters. She held on to the memory of their time together. She held on to the idea of love. Real love. A love that lasts longer than any ninety minute chase to a hollow Hollywood ending.

Thirty-eight years had passed, but the feeling was still with her. It was the last thing she had to lose.

She hired a detective. It took him a few months, but eventually he tracked Ron to a village outside of London, where he had worked as a mail carrier.

She spent a good sum of money for his address. There was no good reason not to give it a try. She wrote him a letter. The first letter in more than three decades. It was a gamble, but she figured it might pay off better than the horses on which she liked to wager.

A few weeks later, she received his response. Ron had also married, twice. But now he was alone again; one divorce, one death. His children were grown, and he was nearing retirement. The letters continued and the flame rekindled.

They arranged to see each other, at least one more time. That would be enough. They knew there was nothing else to do. In two years, they were married.

Ron moved to America to be with her. They lived in that small town in the middle of North America, but they didn't stay there.

They traveled the world together, visiting his children and grand-children in England and Papua New Guinea, as well as hers in California and Washington.

Maybe she even thought of the girl she had given up while in Washington. Maybe she was too happy to dwell on the past. What matters is that she was happy.

A forty year love letter had finally arrived.

They would be together another twenty-some-odd years, until the week before Ron died. She was too frail to visit him in the hospital, and by then the dementia was stealing her memory away. Either she forgot, or she just stopped asking about him.

She had been such a boisterous woman, always quick with a story or a dirty joke. But, she was fading like a photograph left in the sun, a ghostly image of what had been.

In his last weeks, Ron gave me some advice. He said, “Don't ever grow old, kiddo. It's no fun.” He said it with a smile.

Ron liked to talk and tell stories, but time was also stealing from him. Still, he wasn't about to give up. He had a positive attitude that just wouldn't quit.

He continued to make plans for their next vacation abroad, even as he lay dying in the hospital unable to leave the bed under his own power. He said they were going to see the world one more time. Eventually, he had no other choice but to let go. His own children couldn't make the journey to be by his side. It was Sylvetta's daughter who held his hand and said goodbye.

Sylvetta was not far behind him. Her laugh had been so huge. Her smile had been so bright. But, in those last months, she was mostly silent and confused.

They say that seniors in the dementia retreat into memories. I like to think that she held onto that letter. Forty long years in the writing. I like to think of her on that day, when that forty year love letter finally arrived.

We love you, Sylvetta, wherever you are.

[Previously published as a Facebook Note (Notes feature has since been removed rending the post unsharable and nearly impossible to locate) several years ago.]