OF A GOLDEN AGE

You moved far away several months ago and, sometime since then, I bought something for you at a thrift store, the perfect thing. I expressed a desire to mail it, which led to a weekslong process while you waited to establish a P.O. box, since your physical address could not receive mail.

Once I got that P.O. box number, it took me a few weeks to get to the post office, mostly because I didn’t know where the nearest one was. I told you I finally mailed it. Several days later, a frenetic Facebook message saying you’d given me the wrong number. Later that same day, a phone call. The caller I.D. lists the state where you used to live.

“I sent you a Facebook message,” you said.

“Oh?” I said, though I’d read it already.

“I thought I gave you the wrong number for my P.O. box but I was wrong about being wrong, I’m pretty sure.”

“You’re pretty sure?” I said.

“Yeah, the one I gave you the first time was right.”

“So I should disregard this message, is what you’re saying?” I said.

“Yeah. Listen, I gotta go. All my love,” you said.

“Yes, yes. Take care of yourself,” I said.

no responses