There are stories about letters that slide into the cracks at the postal warehouse, doomed to purgatory for a few years. Or decades. Then through some fluke they are noticed, and a benevolent soul lobs it on its way. No doubt the price of a stamp has increased in the interim, but eventually it ends up in the hands of the addressee.
As it happens our post office lady mentioned that she is retiring soon. Not being one to dawdle I ordered fabric with images of letters and cancellations, and invited members of the community to sign blocks. Another woman pieced it, and a third quilted it. The post lady has gone quiet about the end of her job, so the quilt lays in a stack awaiting its moment of glory. Who knows when that will be.
The other day I was in a fractious condition. Benjamin's health took a sharp decline. There are non homogeneous thoughts about how to proceed among those of us who collectively try to keep him on this planet. Other demands on my time have slithered in the side door, which not only lets in the summer swelter but also the hot air of my ego. I decided to stride away from my cluttering tasks and inner dialogue to join a tribe at the local cafe. Irresponsible I know, but there it is.
The conversation volleyed around medical procedures, current events, and levity. Then a friend slid a yellow paper across the table for me.
"My wife found this when we were cleaning up. Not sure how it ended up at our house."
I looked at the signature. DAD. It was typed so I sleuthed no clues from the script.
"Is it from your dad, or our grandfather?" I asked.
"Your dad."
I knew better than to read it then, making myself vulnerable to the feelings that might erupt off the page. In the quiet of my favorite chair I unfolded the creased and cracking paper, and opened myself to a visitation from my father.
He wove a description of his current condition, living in a carriage house with my mother. Dad was trying to regain his mobility even with late stage emphysema, and felt embarrassed about the oxygen tank that followed him like a shadow. The gratitude that rose to the top of his awareness like thick cream helped him navigate the inevitable worry for his four children, whom the letter was written to. Dad trusted in Providence, and no assault on his lungs, nor tribulation with his wife's
mental health could rob him of that.
He mentioned his age, which does not always show up in an ordinary missive, and the candles on his cake then match mine now. How about that. His musings wandered to decisions about social security, his pension, and his capacity to get his job done. The stuff of a nondescript afternoon.
There were no life altering insights, and yet that was in itself comforting. Here was a letter, written in 1988, that showed up at someone else's house, laid low, and circuitously landed in my hands on a day when I was feeling wobbly about life's onslaught.
What are the odds?
My father loves me. I believe that wholeheartedly, even if only in theory. But for a yellowed piece of paper that he touched with his wrinkled hands to arrive at its destination in my trembling fingers, in a moment when I cannot find the next step, well... it solidifies the fragile belief that things will turn out alright.
