I am sitting on a bench throwing bread at ducks.
Feeding them, I suppose. But they don’t seem particularly interested.
In my pocket there’s a letter I meant to send some years ago. The envelope has become quite wrinkled, but I can’t imagine the words have faded. I used my favorite pen, and paper from the stationary set I got for Christmas as a girl. Savored paper. Only used on important occasions.
Does anyone send letters anymore?
I am worried the address will be wrong. Not wrong, I can still recite it by heart. But obsolete. God knows I’ve moved quite a bit. Here and there. Cheaper, closer, cleaner, bigger. Then smaller. So I suppose, it could end up in someone else’s hands entirely.
A little embarrassing, someone else reading it. Well, it would be anyway.
I do feel bad about the coffee stain. Years spent safely in a box under the bed, but take it out this morning and I blot it all in a minute. Don’t know why it had to be today. There’s no particular significance. If I wanted to be poetic, I could wait another month. And a half. And three days. But I was always crap at poetics. Besides, if I wait, I might lose my nerve.
O! I’ve plonked one on the head. Point to me.
I really ought to move. It’s nearly noon and my supply of stale dinner rolls is nearly running out. And there’s the box. Just a little stroll. Seems odd to do in public, sending something so private. But nobody else knows that, do they? And they don’t know that the prospect of a reply – any reply – is terrifying. They only see the wrinkled paper and the box.
Better late than never. I really hope that’s true.
So I throw my final crumbs, and take a stroll.