He looked across at his neighbors home. The old woman had died weeks ago and finally someone was cleaning out the place. On the sidewalk the barrels were full of a lifetime of stuff when suddenly a gust of wind blew a few pieces into his well kept yard. Damn, he thought, now I have to clean up that crap. Pulling on his shoes he went outside, picked up a piece of paper and for some reason, unknown to him, he began to read. “My Dearest Mabel,” it began, followed by words of intimacy and deep love. Looking up at the corner he read, December 15, 1944, Bastogne. Now he knew.