The path to our mailbox has worn thin today as I traipsed out every ten minutes to check for your mission call. I knew our mail doesn’t come until late afternoon and I knew the letter wasn’t mine open it anyway, but somehow I couldn’t resist opening the door, twisting a few dead geranium blooms off their stems as I passed and opening the copper mailbox to find it, once again, empty. Scanning the streets for any sign of the red, white and blue mailtruck I laughed at myself and shuffled back into the house.
It didn’t come: an Eddie Bauer catalog, the Visa bill, lots of political fliers, but no mission call. And since they only come on Wednesday (and today seemed optimistically early) it likely won’t come until next week.
You and I both know it’s probably for the best. Sure, it was easy for you to say, “I don’t want to open it while Dad’s out of town. Let’s just open it Thursday night.”
And it’s easy for Dad to say, “Please wait!” when he’s hanging out at the plant in Wisconsin. But do you truly, honestly think that I could resist peeking with the envelope sitting on my kitchen counter? Oh yes, I could have sailed through dinner and bedtime quite easily, confidently. But at 2 a.m., when the house is silent and my mind is racing with all the possibilities, the letter would have lured me with it’s secrets, water would have been boiling on the stove and I would have carefully, slowly steamed it open.
So we can be grateful– both of us– you, that you can be the first to open your call and me, that I can escape the moral repercussions of such devious behavior.
Much love (and impatience),