**The Postcards Between Us: A Lifelong Friendship**
It was the summer of 1963 when Annie O’Connor and Rosie Miller first met. The two girls, both fifteen, were attending a small music camp in the Adirondacks, a place known for its natural beauty and the haunting melody of the wind that rustled through the trees at dusk. Annie had come from Chicago, the daughter of a stern Irish Catholic family, while Rosie hailed from a quiet town in rural Vermont, where her parents owned a modest bookstore. The two couldn’t have been more different in personality—Annie was reserved, a little shy, with chestnut-brown hair she kept tucked behind her ears, while Rosie was bold, with short-cropped blonde hair and a laugh that seemed to burst from her at the slightest provocation.
They were assigned to the same cabin, and on that first night, while the other girls giggled and gossiped about boys, Rosie pulled out a harmonica and began to play a low, bluesy tune. Annie, sitting on the edge of her bunk, couldn’t help but smile.
“You’re good,” she said, leaning closer.
Rosie shrugged, flashing a crooked grin. “I just like the way it sounds. What about you? You play anything?”
“Piano,” Annie admitted, though she didn’t mention that her parents had forced her into lessons. “I’m not as free with it as you are.”
“Maybe I’ll teach you how to let loose,” Rosie teased, winking.
That summer, the two became inseparable. They spent their afternoons in the shade of a large oak tree by the lake, sharing stories, dreams, and secrets. As the camp came to an end, neither wanted to say goodbye. They made a pact: they would write postcards to each other as often as they could, keeping their bond alive no matter where life took them.
### *August 25, 1963*
**Rosie,**
I’m back in Chicago. It’s loud here, too loud. I miss the quiet of the lake, the sound of your harmonica. My parents already have me scheduled for piano recitals all fall. I wish I could play like you do—just for the joy of it. But I’ll try to remember what you said about “letting loose.”
Yours,
**Annie**
### *September 3, 1963*
**Annie,**
I’m sitting in the bookstore, pretending to help my mom, but really, I’m just people-watching. I tried playing piano yesterday—you’re right, it’s harder than it looks! I miss you. It’s weird, but I keep thinking of things I want to tell you, like how the leaves are already turning red here. Maybe one day you’ll come visit Vermont, and I’ll show you how peaceful it is.
Always,
**Rosie**
Over the next few years, the postcards flowed back and forth, small windows into each other's lives. Annie's notes spoke of life in the city, her growing frustration with her parents’ rigid expectations, and her budding passion for poetry, something she kept hidden from her family. Rosie’s postcards were filled with the warmth of Vermont’s changing seasons, stories from the bookstore, and the music she was always trying to master.
Though their correspondence started with light-hearted notes, over time, their words began to carry more weight.
### *February 12, 1966*
**Rosie,**
I’ve been reading a lot of poetry lately. Sylvia Plath, mostly. Her words are so raw, so vulnerable. I feel like she’s speaking to something inside me that I can’t quite name. It’s hard to talk about this with anyone here. Everything feels… too confined. I don’t know how to explain it.
I miss the way you look at the world. You make everything seem so wide open, like there’s always room to breathe.
Yours,
**Annie**
### *March 1, 1966*
**Annie,**
I think I get what you mean. There’s this feeling I’ve had for a while now, like I don’t quite fit into the life everyone expects me to lead. My parents keep talking about college, about settling down here. But I want more than this small town. Sometimes I think about hitchhiking across the country, just to see what’s out there.
I don’t think either of us are meant to stay in one place.
Always,
**Rosie**
By the time they were in their early twenties, the world around them was changing rapidly. It was 1969, and movements for civil rights, women’s liberation, and LGBTQ+ visibility were gaining momentum. But while the world outside was shifting, Annie and Rosie were still grappling with their own identities in private.
### *July 7, 1969*
**Rosie,**
I don’t know how to say this except to just say it: I think I might be in love with someone. But it’s not a boy. There’s this girl in my poetry class—her name is Evelyn. She’s smart, funny, and when I’m with her, I feel… whole. But I don’t know what to do with these feelings. It’s scary. I’ve never told anyone this before.
I’m telling you because I trust you. I hope that’s okay.
Yours,
**Annie**
### *July 19, 1969*
**Annie,**
Thank you for telling me. I don’t know what to say except that I understand. I’ve been having similar feelings, but I’ve been too afraid to put them into words. There’s a girl here, too—her name is Leah, and she works at the coffee shop down the street from the bookstore. I’ve been going in there just to see her smile. I’ve never told anyone either.
Maybe there’s nothing wrong with us. Maybe we’re just figuring it out.
Always,
**Rosie**
That summer, their postcards became more frequent, more urgent. They were trying to navigate a world that still didn’t fully accept their identities, but they found solace in each other’s words. Rosie eventually left Vermont, settling in Boston, where she became active in the burgeoning feminist and LGBTQ+ communities. Annie stayed in Chicago but found a close-knit circle of queer writers who became her second family.
Their friendship, once confined to camp and postcards, had grown into something deeper, more profound—a lifeline of understanding between two women who had faced the world’s expectations and quietly carved out their own paths.
### *October 12, 1973*
**Rosie,**
I went to my first Pride march last weekend. It was exhilarating, terrifying, and liberating all at once. I kept thinking about you—how far we’ve come since that summer at camp, and how lucky I am to have you as a constant in my life. I wish you could have been there, marching beside me. Maybe next year?
Yours,
**Annie**
### *October 22, 1973*
**Annie,**
I wish I could’ve been there, too. I’m so proud of you. It’s amazing how much we’ve both grown, how much the world has changed since we were teenagers. I’ll be there next year, I promise.
We’ve made it through a lot, haven’t we? I feel like I’ve lived a thousand lives since that summer, but one thing has never changed: you.
Always,
**Rosie**
As the years passed, their friendship became a constant thread in each other’s lives. Annie continued writing, eventually publishing a collection of poetry that received critical acclaim, while Rosie became a prominent activist in the LGBTQ+ community, helping to organize Pride events and creating safe spaces for queer youth.
Their postcards became less frequent as the years turned into decades, but each one was a treasure, a reminder of the bond they had forged. They traveled together when they could, visiting the places they had dreamed about as young girls—Paris, San Francisco, the coast of Maine. And each time they returned to their separate lives, another postcard would arrive, filled with love, laughter, and memories of their time together.
### *August 15, 2003*
**Rosie,**
I was thinking today about that first summer we met. I can still picture you sitting under the oak tree, playing your harmonica, carefree as ever. You haven’t changed much, you know. You still make me feel like the world is a little more open, a little more free.
I’m grateful for you, for everything we’ve shared.
Yours, always,
**Annie**
### *August 25, 2003*
**Annie,**
I feel the same way. You’ve been the one constant in my life, the person who’s always understood me, even when I didn’t understand myself. Thank you for always being there, through everything.
Here’s to many more years of postcards.
Always,
**Rosie**
In the end, their friendship was more than just a series of postcards. It was a testament to the power of connection, to the beauty of a love that was never romantic but always profound, a love that spanned decades, miles, and lives lived both together and apart.
They were, after all, each other’s home.
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