My grandmother had a pen pal in Wisconsin for 78 years. It started in 1946. She was 9. An American soldier in her town shared his rations with her family through a hard winter. When he went home, he wrote to them. She wrote back. Every Christmas, a card came from Wisconsin. Every Christmas, one went back. When he passed away, his daughter kept writing. When she passed, his granddaughter took over. Three generations of one American family. One Japanese grandmother. My grandmother died this spring. Last week, a Christmas card arrived early. Addressed to her. The granddaughter didn't know. My grandfather is 91. He doesn't speak English. He asked me to help him write back and tell her. Two weeks later, a heavy box came from Wisconsin. Inside were letters. Hundreds of them. Every letter my grandmother ever sent. Seventy-eight years. Kept in order. Tied with ribbon. A note on top: "We think these belong to you now." My grandfather had never read them. He never knew what she'd written all those years. So every night now, I read him one. 1958: "I married a quiet man. He is very kind." 1971: "My husband still cannot say what he feels. But he fixed the roof before the rain." Last December: "My husband is 90 now. He still holds my hand when we cross the street. He thinks nobody notices." He listens with his eyes closed. Last night, when I finished, he said: "Read that one again."