Visiting

I had long wished to go to my friend's home: we had met just once, in California, and her house was in the woods of Northern Maine. I could not wait to reach her door, to greet the mailbox that had connected us for so long, through hundreds of hand-written letters that brimmed with both our lives. It was a most notable occasion.
We drew near to the house: I had seen it only through word-pictures, through my friend's deft sketches, when I lived in Ireland, and, later, California.
After almost four hundred miles, we coasted up the driveway and Spouse brought the car to a satisfied stop. I could hardly draw breath for the excitement. I wondered: behind which window was my dear friend peeking? I glanced about for familiar signs of her.
"Wait," I said, remembering something crucial. "She's not here. It's the wrong house."
"Pardon?"
"She moved. I forgot. She moved to another house. This is her old address."
"Moved," Spouse echoed numbly. No, it seemed he could not quite believe it either.
"I'm sorry," I mumbled. "I forgot. But the good news is that she only moved about a mile away, so we can go there instead."
And we did. It was a most notable occasion.