A marked note.

A letter mailed from Palatine, Illinois remained positioned on my dresser for many months. Though I tried not to consciously delve into the significance of the action, I placed it purposely within eyesight of my usual sitting spot. Each time I looked up, I would clearly discern in my peripheral, its precise white-with-a-tinge-of-smoke outline. Most often, I would keep its recognition in the posterior of my mind. Yet, there were several days where I completely thwarted such cautious efforts. Audaciously, I would pick up the envelope, reread the names on the addresses and reregister the postmark in my encephalon's timetable. I would run my fingers over the page encased inside, and feel the slight indentations the pen had made onto the precious solo sheet. I would replace the letter to its position and continue to be both grateful and perplexed at its presence.

Today, a different liturgy ensued.

From my sitting spot, I looked at the envelope and reflected back to the day I recieved it. I remember reading it and laughing as I walked back inside from my mailbox. Today, when I read the note, it just as easily elicited a smile. Instead of placing it back to its post, I put it in my filecabinet in a folder specifically marked "Grandpa & Grandma." I lightly pushed the drawer and the sliding tracks continued to close the drawer all the way.

I paused, and consciously grasped the significance of this action.


Je t'aime, Pépère.