I Rinsed the Envelope Off

The card said something like: thinking of you.

It said: I hope this year is good.

I read it once. I knew

it said what birthday cards say. I should

have just kept it. I didn't.

I walked it to the trash and let it drop

and went and sat down. Twenty minutes,

then I got up. I couldn't stop

myself. The envelope was white.

A coffee ground had landed on the lower

right corner. I pulled it out.

I set it on the counter.

I didn't wipe the coffee ground.

Not right away. I stood there looking—

the envelope, the ground,

the card still inside, not open.

I didn't open it again.

I know what it says. It says

thinking of you, and then

something about the coming days

that wasn't quite a wish.

I rinsed the envelope eventually.

I put the card in the dish

by the door where I keep things I mean to deal with.

That's where it is.

I haven't dealt with it.