, , , , , , , ,

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.