Glancing outside I see the postman struggling to fit the mail in my small letter box. The icy westerly blows as I make a dash to grab my letters. The chill in the air makes my nose run and eyes water; even though I only have to walk fifty steps or so. Relieved to be back inside, I bee line for the kitchen and park myself in front of the combustion stove to warm my hands. Throwing the mail on the table I noticed the large white envelope. In a heartbeat, I recognize the bureau’s address. I look at it for a moment and then walk away. In my mind’s eye I can see it, rectangular, crisp and clean the address neat and perfectly aligned.
As I sit down, letting my mind wander, despair and loneliness begin to surround me. I have been expecting this letter; I do not anticipate revelations of any great mysteries, but what if I am disappointed. What if another door is closed in my search for a past? I cannot help but ask myself such questions. I wonder if I am brave or simply desperate to justify my sense of doubt.
Even in my earliest childhood I sought to play the games that led to achievement and acceptance. I doubt, however my brother’s experiences were anything beyond adoration and edification. Two years older than me, he played the role of the perfect son, moulding himself to fulfill our parent’s expectations. Vanilla and Chocolate is what we should have been named, so obvious and strong were our differences.
For a while, I leave the kitchen to busy myself, occasionally glancing towards the table. As I fold the washing, I am for a moment comforted by the soft downy feel of my infant’s blanket. Satin cream ribbon borders the ivory material, with daintily embroidered butterflies which seem to dance on each corner. My baby girl, my great achievement, my Ali; she is the reason I began my search; it was for her that I have unlocked my heart and asked who am I?
Feeling older than my 20 years; I watch my baby sleeping, only a few weeks old, and wonder if anyone had looked at me like this.
Returning to the kitchen, I touch the envelope, run my finger along the smooth edge, and turn it over and over. I read my name, I hate it. Jones, such a nothing name, I think maybe it suited such a nothing girl. I will myself not to walk with my memory; I cannot go there now; already I am terrified.
Moving the lumpy bits in my couch, I curl my legs under me and pull the throw a little higher. I want Ali to wake, to distract me from my mail, but her breathing is smooth and she shows no signs of joining me. If I wait maybe Ali’s father will come home tonight, maybe he won’t. Either way I know I cannot wait any longer, with courage I do not know I have, the seal is broken.
