The Envelope

It sat on the kitchen counter,

waiting for me to open it.

I knew what it was.

I could feel the numbers inside

the way you feel weight

before you lift it.

The landlord's letter.

The repair I have to pay for.

The thing that's broken

and my responsibility now.

I called my mother once,

held the phone,

didn't say anything.

Hung up without dialing.

There's no one to call

who will take this from me.

No one whose job it is

to make it go away.

Just me.

Just this.

Just the numbers

and my name

at the bottom of the bill.

I opened the envelope.

Read the numbers.

Felt them settle into my chest

like stones,

like weight,

like the moment you realize

there's no backup plan.

There's no one coming.

This is just mine.

The check I'll have to write

is just mine.

The contractor I'll have to call

is just mine.

The problem is just mine

and the fixing of it

is just mine.

I sat down at the table.

The letter in my hands.

The numbers small but impossible,

not because they're large

but because they're real.

They're actually real.

And they're actually mine.

And I'm the only one

who can do anything about it.

That's when it hits you.

Not the money.

The solitude of it.

The absolute aloneness

of being the only person

responsible for your own life.