Letterbox Love

There it is. Slightly faded; slightly small; but there, whooshing through the slit in the door. The breeze follows behind, causing it to hover in the air with a sense of urgency before continuing to flutter gracefully to the floor. It nestles comfortably between my feet, hitting the polished wood without a sound. I stare at it a moment, its picture face up, nervous at the prospect of picking it off the ground. The word EDMONTON jumps out at me first, the yellow line beneath it a lame attempt at adding some excitement to the otherwise drab photograph. EDMONTON! with an exclamation point is how I’m assuming it should be read, overzealously, but without any real emotion. I continue to stare at it until the letters rush into one another, a jumble of yellow and Es and Ns and Os. I bend down to flip it over before I ruin the moment, the long-awaited excitement. My fingers buzz in anticipation.
Lauren, this is edmonton. pt. 1, Jake.
Edmonton! must be exciting. You used to sign love before your name in bold black ink, as if you had traced the letters over and over again to make sure the word, or perhaps the meaning, did not fade before it reached me. There is something so definite about black ink.
Your love got to be a sloppy green when you reached Nunavut and then a crooked mess of penciled letters when you hit Newfoundland. And now in Edmonton where your love has faded or perhaps just couldn’t make the journey, I have become a hazy blur, my face a pleasant memory that you keep tucked under your pillow for something to dream about at night.