Envelope

the day i was born, my mom kissed me on my head: sealing the envelope i'd carry around in my pocket. when i was four, my envelope was colored with crayon "i love mommy"s and i took it to school for people to peak at in the share-bag. in first grade, i loved to show off my envelope, which was now neatly decorated with whales and such. once i kept it close to my ear, to listen inside, but all i heard was my teacher yelling. when i was 9, we were encouraged to fill a notebook with things called poems reflecting our envelopes. i always kept it in my hand and sometimes used it as an excuse if i ever had a papercut. when i was 13, i opened my envelope and looked inside to see what it was like. and suddenly, i cried and feared that the paper inside might rip. today, i hold the folded paper in my hand, and watch it unfold. i know i have to hide it -keep it close, and i know i can?t re-mail it. but i?ll always look at all the creases, the drawings, the folds, the scribbled words, and the neatly printed ones. and hope that soon i'll feel it's worth the read.