Tiny Packages

The smell reminded me of something I hadn't met in years - stale, mean, angry. My glands produced bitter saliva and I choked on that old familiar taste of disappointment. I swallowed hard as my weary hands struggled to break the seal on the cover. There was a time when I opened those envelopes in my sleep. But any one person can only handle so much rejection. It had been 23 years since the last time I eagerly tore into one of these envelopes, disregarding the seal altogether.

It's amazing what can fit into such a tiny package. I put so much into everything back then. I can't blame myself for feeling special, gifted. Doesn't everyone? Those were different days; a different me. I've come to learn that if you expect nothing you aren't easily disappointed. Expect the worst and you may be relieved when life spits in your face. That is what those old letters taught me.

But why then do I become aware of my beating heart as my sweaty hands open this letter with a smidgen of hope? Has time weakened my theory? Or is it the recognition that all is lost if this letter holds bad news. A loaded .41 pistol resting on my desk near a half empty bottle of Jack Constow suggests this as the last resort.

"Dad, Mom wants you in the kitchen."

I jerked, whiskey bled onto the hardwood, and the echo of the revolver rung in my ears as it spun across the floor.

"Dammit Billy! How many times have I told you to stay out of my office?"

Billy stood like a deer in the headlights as his little eyes followed the swirling motion of the gun until it stopped just before his feet.

The moment slapped me in the face. Did any of this really matter?

"I'll be down in a minute..."

He slunk away. I could smell the denial on my breathe as I exhaled. I looked up at the family portrait hanging above the mantle. With a moment's hesitation I tore the un-opened letter in half. I had given up on those dreams a long time ago.

"Coming Hunny."