Six years

It’s been six years since I received a letter. Propaganda I get, even all the way out here. Seems strange that the furniture store thinks I’ll be coming in to buy myself a couch from them if they just send me one more postcard. And of course, the gas company wants their share of my money, but never a letter. With handwritten letters.

It was there after Doug and I got back from our long morning walk. I used to take him on a leash but he’s too old to run away now. These days Doug walks with his nose to the ground, walking in zigzags while I look up at the trees and try once again to feel alive. He came home, nose to the ground as usual, then suddenly whined, sat down and rested his head on the rocking chair next to the mailbox. Took me trying to get him into the house four times before I thought maybe I would check the mailbox. I thought perhaps a mouse or other rodent was caught in there. 

But when I lifted the metal flap there it was. Pristine. White. Handwritten.

It’s been six years since I’ve gotten a letter and now, I sit here, the morning sun slowly passing by my window, leaving me in an afternoon shadow. It sat on my desk as I made tea, looking back at the blank place where the return address should have been. Now I sit twirling it between my fingers, corner to thumb, corner to index finger. My tea is cooling down, so I sip from it. Doug comes and kneels next to me, a quiet whine releasing from his throat.

Then that moment came, the one that propels us forward in life without us understanding why or how. It’s the moment between not doing something and taking the action finally. I ponder that in-between moment often, wondering what convinces our bodies to take that action.

Whatever it is, it took over my hands from one sip of tea and a pat on Doug’s head to ripping the envelope flap from its sealant. But it was up to me to keep my eyes open and take a deep breath, the tears of joy and wonder appearing before even reading the words. I already knew who sent it. The paper smelled like him.