No Stamp

I was clearing out a bag

I hadn't opened in over a year

when my hand found it

in the inner pocket—

the envelope, still sealed,

address in my own handwriting.

No stamp.

I stood in the hallway.

I knew immediately what it was.

The fold lines had gone soft,

the paper giving at the creases

the way old paper does

when it's been carried long enough

to take the shape of the bag around it.

I turned it over.

The seal held.

My name for her above the address

I'd written carefully,

more carefully than I usually write.

She's in a different city now.

The thing I wrote is almost certainly

no longer true, or true in a way

that would only make things worse.

I stood there for a long time,

holding it.

Not opening it.

Not putting it down.

Trying to figure out

which direction the letter was traveling—

toward her, or away,

or just standing still

in the hallway with me,

going nowhere,

like it had been for a year.