This writing was accepted for publication in the 84 page perfect-bound issue... Down in the Dirt magazine (v093) (the April 2011 Issue) You can also order this 5.5" x 8.5" issue as an ISSN# paperback book:						This writing also appears in this 6" x 9" ISBN# paperback “Wake Up and Smell the Flowers” Order this 6" x 9" ISBN# book: (also available through amazon.com)

Order this writing in the book Literary Town Hall dirt edition		order the 6" x 9" ISBN# paperback book:

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Enveloped

Danielle Bredy

    Eight years had passed. Saliva, set, sealed and significant. The letter was mailed. Out of everything that had happened, I really just wanted to let my Grandparents know that they were in my thoughts, and that certain facts like that don’t waiver. Some five year olds chew and swallow without asking questions, but when I was five, I always could feel the restraint. Both sides must have been using restraint to control the situation. We eventually learn that, in some cases, uncontrolled is more natural. For us, it was necessary.
    In such a gentle fashion, my letter gracefully nodded goodbye as it sailed to sit atop the pile of others. The other letters were to other locations, other mortgage companies, other lives being acted out silently on postal time. Postal time makes you slow down some and get in touch with your feelings, or ignore them. It isn’t there to dictate that portion. I chose to stay occupied and like a brave soul would do, I made myself vulnerable. Who knew what bitterness lurked on which banks of their arteries. Their capillaries might hold their feelings captive. But, I held faith. I went about my week and a half, not expecting, but with sincere hope.
    A few more days had passed and things had begun to settle into the new divots without my Dad. An envelope returned to me. It didn’t seem to boast anything like some letters and junk mail do. Yet, it seemed to be anxiously awaiting arrival. It could have been my nerves, but it was here. My mom, despite knowing who the letter was from, exercised restraint again. “You wrote to them, so it’s your letter to read,” she stated softly. She looked as excited as my limbs were. Adrenaline duped, I opened the letter carefully.
    I read every word. I had one thing right – that our feelings were mutual. I was also right in thinking that they hadn’t wanted to cut out of our lives, and that they would have walked through fire if it meant they could have seen us still. Without so many words, she exclaimed how happy her and my Grandfather felt to hear from us. They were wondering, though. They were wondering if the situation was real: if my Dad had really left, and if it was really for sure this time. At the end of the letter was written, “We’re looking forward to seeing you and getting to know you again... we do hope you didn’t get in some kind of trouble for this.” Restraint. Control.
    Sometimes things in life need to lose their control to be natural, and to be at their most balanced. To an extent, even I know this. I hear my Grandfather still reads my letter. It’s one of the few times his wife has seen him cry.

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