The mail wasn't going to sort itself. Eventually the mailbox was going to explode from the pressure. She had to go pick it up.
The mail didn't sort itself. She hefted a clumsy pile of letters, magazines, bills, and unwanted solicitations to the counter. Dropped them. They fell like weighted leaves, spiraling down in a little tornado. She smirked to herself. This was the mail carrier's 'Fuck You,' a refusal to stack the mail in an orderly, pyramid fashion.
Bills.
Magazines.
Unwanted ads.
Invitations to weddings, baby showers, wedding showers...
Bills.
Unwanted mail addressed to "Resident."
As she sifted through the heap of paper, she came across a small note that had swirled down to the kitchen floor and pasted itself against the refrigerator. It had only her name on it.
She opened the envelope and found a small index card inside. It read only the following lines.
I decided not to wait and figure this thing out.
I got married.
I'm going to be happy.
Hope you are too.
Only one person could have sent that card. It felt just like it does every other time. Only different. Like her morning coffee, same brew, different day.
As she gripped the card, she trembled slightly, felt the lump rise in her throat. It always made her well up a little when this happened. Her mind roll-a-dexed back through memories and then flipped forward again. No sense even thinking anymore.
No sense in feeling anymore.
She placed her mind on autopilot.
Instead of thinking, she went to the patio, sat down, and lit a cigarette. She toyed with the lighter, then crumpled the card and lit the end. It flamed, sputtered, and she dropped it on the cold ground, smashing it with the toe of her boot.
It was ash.
He was an ash.
Same ceremony. Different day.
No comments:
Post a Comment