I Wrote a Story
The gift.
It was ordinary looking enough when it arrived through the letter box. Hand written, addressed to her. A card from one of her old colleagues she assumed, placing it next to her other cards leaning against the vase of flowers her mother had bought her. She would open it tomorrow, when she and her boys celebrated her birthday with breakfast.
Later that evening, she went to look at the grand sum of all her cards. To ponder whether the quantity meant anything, those who had chosen to send the cards, and those who social rules had given no choice.
She noticed the envelope that had arrived that morning had no stamp. Maybe it was from the neighbour. She looked again. Maya Jayne. The neighbour wouldn't know that.
Now those who know Maya well, and they are few, perhaps less than few. Well she is not often patient. Always curious, always needing to know. But somehow, she had no desire to open the card before the date she assumed it had been intended for.
She did however feel compelled to hold it closer, smell the green envelope, and trace over the letters of her name with her finger before returning it to sit a little out of place with the other cards. She noticed how it didn't rest neatly with the others. It accepted its place, standing strong, never falling, waiting.
And so the morning came. The children brought her her small pile of cards. They pleaded to be able to open them, tearing the envelopes and reading the same socially approved phrases to their mum.
The cards all open, she remarked to herself that she had not noticed who the green enveloped card was from. She glanced through the cards, reading the few words from her relatives, a few more from friends. Nothing stood out. She leaned to collect the crumpled envelopes from the floor, noticing again, the green shade setting itself out from the rest.
She reached. It was unopened. Somehow it had escaped the earlier tearing open ceremony.
She looked at it again.
Maya Jayne.
She opened it slowly. As though she needed to savour the moment. As though handling a delicate artefact.
Slowly she pulled out a card. The outside was green and plain. She opened the card and as she did images flashed before her eyes. A forest, a river, a man she thought she knew, a smile, a kiss. She felt someone pull her hand. She was there in the forest, by the river, a picnic was laid for two.
A flask of tea and an array of biscuits, not your usual picnic.
He smiled at her and said two words. Always. Everything.
She looked at him, as though her eyes could drink his sight. She closed her eyes; to keep him there. That moment. Always. Everything.
She opened her eyes.
The boys had found an unopened present they were fighting over. She looked back at the card, handwritten, she read. Always. Everything.
It was ordinary looking enough when it arrived through the letter box. Hand written, addressed to her. A card from one of her old colleagues she assumed, placing it next to her other cards leaning against the vase of flowers her mother had bought her. She would open it tomorrow, when she and her boys celebrated her birthday with breakfast.
Later that evening, she went to look at the grand sum of all her cards. To ponder whether the quantity meant anything, those who had chosen to send the cards, and those who social rules had given no choice.
She noticed the envelope that had arrived that morning had no stamp. Maybe it was from the neighbour. She looked again. Maya Jayne. The neighbour wouldn't know that.
Now those who know Maya well, and they are few, perhaps less than few. Well she is not often patient. Always curious, always needing to know. But somehow, she had no desire to open the card before the date she assumed it had been intended for.
She did however feel compelled to hold it closer, smell the green envelope, and trace over the letters of her name with her finger before returning it to sit a little out of place with the other cards. She noticed how it didn't rest neatly with the others. It accepted its place, standing strong, never falling, waiting.
And so the morning came. The children brought her her small pile of cards. They pleaded to be able to open them, tearing the envelopes and reading the same socially approved phrases to their mum.
The cards all open, she remarked to herself that she had not noticed who the green enveloped card was from. She glanced through the cards, reading the few words from her relatives, a few more from friends. Nothing stood out. She leaned to collect the crumpled envelopes from the floor, noticing again, the green shade setting itself out from the rest.
She reached. It was unopened. Somehow it had escaped the earlier tearing open ceremony.
She looked at it again.
Maya Jayne.
She opened it slowly. As though she needed to savour the moment. As though handling a delicate artefact.
Slowly she pulled out a card. The outside was green and plain. She opened the card and as she did images flashed before her eyes. A forest, a river, a man she thought she knew, a smile, a kiss. She felt someone pull her hand. She was there in the forest, by the river, a picnic was laid for two.
A flask of tea and an array of biscuits, not your usual picnic.
He smiled at her and said two words. Always. Everything.
She looked at him, as though her eyes could drink his sight. She closed her eyes; to keep him there. That moment. Always. Everything.
She opened her eyes.
The boys had found an unopened present they were fighting over. She looked back at the card, handwritten, she read. Always. Everything.
