Letters arrive, some even handwritten. You’ve opened a special mailbox down at the post office. They keep the overflow in a bin in the back. Every day, you pick them up, lug them back to your car, swing by the Java Joint on your way home. Extra large latte with an extra shot of espresso.
You can’t answer them all, so you have to start making decisions quickly. You paw through the bin, sipping your coffee, looking for something: an odd shaped envelope, a blue one. An unusual stamp, maybe something international. An address written in 1963 school-teacher script, capital I and everything. A postcard. You ignore the thickest letters.
I’m worried about my 4-year old son. He’s anxious all the time for no reason and still sucks him thumb. Will he start kindergarten like this? Will the other kids make fun of him? What about the orthodontist bills? What can I do to make him stop?
My mother is dying but my father won’t tell her. I think she should know. She always asks me when he leaves the room. He gets so angry if I bring it up. The doctors aren’t helping.
I lied on my resume, and now I feel awful. Every day on the job, I feel like they will find out and fire me. This is my first job in 18 months. I’m three credits short and never got my degree. I couldn’t pass French. It didn’t make sense.
My parents hate me. What do I do?
Where to begin?
The child isn’t anxious.
Tell your mother. Hold her hand.
Tell your boss. Take the hit.
Your parents adore you. Ask them to be sure. There’s no one they love more.
You type it up, send it to the editor. It appears in Tuesday’s “Living” section.
When you are done for the day, you make your way to your bedroom. The clothes are piled clean and dirty together. You haven’t spent a birthday with your parents in 27 years. You don’t have enough retirement saved and tonight it feels like the only person in the house who loves you is the dog. Other people’s problems are so much easier.
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