Kathy found it by accident — a small pink notebook tucked beneath old scarves and sheet music. Its edges were frayed, the paper yellowed like it had been kissed by time. On the very first page, written in careful cursive, were the words: “Dear Jimmy.”
She smiled before she even opened it. The memory came rushing back — the winter she was thirteen, feeling just a little older than her age, and The Lennon Sisters were singing “Thirteen Going On Fourteen” on the family radio. The world then was all soft colors and quiet dreams. She had written that letter one snowy afternoon, cheeks warm with the kind of hope only a young girl knows.
“Someday, I’ll tell you how I feel,” she had written — but she never did. The letter stayed folded between the pages, hidden away, like a secret too fragile to speak aloud. Back then, even the idea of love was a melody — something you hummed under your breath, afraid the world might hear.
That winter, she used to sit by the radio, waiting for that song to play again. When the opening harmonies floated through the air, she’d close her eyes and imagine Jimmy listening somewhere too — maybe thinking of her, maybe not. It didn’t matter. The feeling itself was enough.
Now, decades later, sitting in that same house with her hands trembling slightly, Kathy didn’t remember Jimmy’s face anymore. But she remembered the feeling — that flutter in her chest, that ache of almost becoming someone new. She traced the faded ink with her fingertip and whispered, “You silly girl.”
Then she tucked the notebook back into the drawer, gently, almost lovingly.
Some things aren’t meant to be finished — only remembered.
And sometimes, growing up doesn’t mean letting go. It just means learning to hold the memory a little softer.