The New Yorker

Short Stories From The New Yorker, 1940. A collection of short stories was sitting proudly on the bookshelf among the other relics but stood a little taller, a little wiser and with a dash of attitude and whisper of fine brandy and vintage cigar. I spied this treasure while visiting a dear family friend for her birthday and commented on quite a few of the books on her shelf and made special note of this one. My mind conversed in full and decided sometime in the early winter we would treat ourselves to first the hunt for it on eBay, the anticipation of its arrival and the night reserved to enjoy it with brandy and a cigar.

This past very short week came with long, willowy and very weathered legs. Demands of the day were mentally, physically and emotionally draining and the legs strode heavily to complete each of the four days. By Friday, a sensation of a hangover set in without the joy and exhilaration of Belvedere, Edna Valley Cabernet or even a cheap shot. Just good old fashioned wiped out exhaustion. Oddly, as that fourth and final day of the week ticked on at times too slowly and others at a speed of which I wished to restrain, I avoided leaving not because I loathed retreat, rather, the three block walk home toiled in daunt. I arm wrestled my mind to push its stubborn body below to get moving and outside, the crisp pre-autumn air presented a spa-like flavor to the trek.

Greeted by the friendly door staff, up the elevator to an empty apartment. Melancholy, peace and emptiness were the houseguests by whom I was greeted, together and at once raising their voices to win my attention. Only one bill on the table, no other mail. On the buffet sat a slightly crushed box about the size of a large toaster oven and the personality of a bored introvert nestled at this cocktail free cocktail party. Its corners sealed in UPS brown tape, double and triple runs and looking particularly unfamiliar. Although strange as it was nothing I ordered, was not a holiday and certainly nothing I expected. The strangeness was complimented by its address label's familiar, friendly handwriting.

I broke the seal fastidiously, slitting the brown packing tape with house keys still in hand with childlike enthusiasm and adult precision. Green tissue paper and bubble wrap protected the precious insides.

Card One

The sender's original address crossed through and updated to a current address.

The date 2009.

A young girl's print read, 'Lulu told me it's your birthday. My name is Sierra.'

This young girl letting someone she met only twice in her life know his legacy has been told like an ancient folk tale in Mark Twain prose at the dinner table, in between sips of tea and on commercial breaks about how special he is. And in her delicate innocence, realized I need to love him too!

A birthday card vacuum packed to reveal the preserved wish years later the way the steam of freshly brewed coffee stirring as morning's gentle alarm.

Card Two

A multi-layered paper flower so real, I buried my nose in it to inhale the spring wish it was intended to carry; to brighten up this end of summer day. The beauty of its non scent was I made up my own and had the luxury of letting start out as peony, turned to lilac and finish a lilac rose - an everlasting gobstopper of scented imagery.

Striped paper meticulously held a book like a newborn.

And finally, a promise.

To my dear friend to someday be published in this book's sequel.

http://www.newyorker.com/fiction