Return Address

I received a letter from my past self.

The gravel crunched beneath my husband’s sneakers as I stepped down the driveway to the mailbox, headlamp strapped to my forehead. Twinkling eyes peered at me from the darkness across the street—the Plum Branch cows. They’d taken to clustering near my mailbox, snuggling up in a tight pack at the fenceline, only noticeable when their monstrous bodies shift in the brittle winter grass. Or when my headlamp shines across their curious eyes.

I greeted them as I reached for the postbox. A single letter lay in the dented metal container, and I squinted at the writing scrawled on the envelope beneath the harsh LED glaring from my forehead. 

I half expected it to be junk mail for my home’s previous owners, but it was for me. From my uncle. 

“Come on, Bear,” I called. My golden shepherd galloped through the fallen leaves and sidled up to me. We made our way up the drive together, my feet slipping in the men’s shoes slightly too wide for my feet.

We stepped into the kitchen together, and I kicked the sneakers into the basket next to the door. I unfastened Bear’s collar, giving him a scratch behind his lamby soft ears. “Good boy.” 

He turned and trotted down the hall to the bathroom. Splashing ensued, and I knew he’d shoved his blocky head into the toilet for a drink of water.

My uncle sent me things from time to time—mostly birthday cards. But it was February, months before my birthday. And it was a little late for Christmas cards, even with the most severe of USPS delays. With furrowed brows, I tore open the envelope to find a second, smaller envelope with a sticky note pasted to the front. 

Emma,

Was going through some old files and ran across this. Thought you might like it!

I peeled away the sticky note to find my handwriting, slightly neater than it is now, staring back at me. The envelope was addressed to my grandmother and postmarked June 12, 2015—nearly nine years prior. 

My breath caught in my throat. 

I knew my uncle would find some interesting things while settling her estate, but I didn’t think she’d keep a thank-you note I’d written her nearly a decade ago. The note itself was normal—I told her I loved her and thanked her for coming to visit me for my high school graduation. Said I wanted to see her again soon. Nothing memorable. But it was heartfelt. 

Maybe I shouldn’t have been surprised that she’d kept it. I have an entire foot locker of paper—notes, letters, drawings, and photos. Many of them are from Grandma K. One might even be a response to the note I held in my hands. I pressed the yellowed envelope to my heart.

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Holding that remnant of my relationship with my late grandmother sparked a few things in me. First, the grief. I miss her. It has been five years since she passed, but I can still smell her baby-powdery perfume and feel her warm, soft hugs and see her cottony white hair and sparkling eyes, so much like my mother’s. 

Seeing my handwriting, the note, also reminded me that I haven’t changed as much as I thought I have over the past decade. The words on the note were familiar—things I would still say given the opportunity. Things I still think about often. 

I still write notes to loved ones—I just put two in my mailbox today. Most of those letters will never find their way back to me, but I wonder if they’ll surprise me someday. Bittersweet and on time.