Leaving the house, I stopped my truck at the end of the driveway to check the mailbox. I was expecting a book. It had arrived, and I held the package and sorted through the rest of the mail.
I came upon an envelope. I flipped it over and there was no writing or address or return address. Nothing identifiable of any kind. It did not look like it was from a business. I opened it up and caught a glimpse of neat lines of handwriting across blank white paper folded crookedly.
My brain reeled. My stomach lurched. My heart jumped as though struck by lightning and it beat with the force of a war drum in my ears. My voice caught in my throat and my breath stopped in my lungs.
For a moment I was frozen in time, standing by the road, haphazardly holding an armful of mail and staring down at the letter in my hands. My brain processed as my eyes read back and forth across the page. Trying to comprehend, trying to identify the handwriting. For a second to which seemed as though in eternity, I thought it was yours. The familiar lean and curve of your letters across to page in black ink.
Everything came together in my mind at last and I realized that the letter was not from you. It was someone else’s familiar handwriting. For only a moment in eternity I had lived with hope and excitement and exaltation and shock. The years of restless lonely longing and silence suddenly forgotten and at an end.
And in an instant all of the things I had been feeling turned to sadness.
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