What the Vacuum Found

The hose caught on something.

A corner of envelope, cream-colored,

with handwriting I used to wake up for.

Three years of dust on top of it.

I didn't open it.

That was the deal I made with myself:

hide it, forget it,

which I did—

until the vacuum

broke the agreement.

The envelope is still sealed.

I recognize the slant of the letters,

the pressure of the pen,

but not the words.

The dust bunnies cling to the flap

like they're protecting it.

There's a shadow under the bed

that's darker than it should be,

and I know it's not just absence of light.

It's everything I pushed under there

with my own hands,

believing that space below

was infinite,

that things could stay down

forever.