I went to the mailbox today and there, on two of the envelopes, was the handwriting that has made my heart beat a little faster for the last 30+ years.  I was stupidly happy to see it.  When I opened the first envelope, there were copies of some official forms.  No note, just copies.

Well, I thought, maybe the next one will be better.  Again, copies of forms.  Nothing of a personal nature.

Okay, that hurt.  Not life threatening but pretty dang painful nonetheless.  I guess this was what our relationship had devolved to.  Not my choice but just the way it was.

As a testament to my continued stupidity, I did not immediately throw the envelopes away.  They spent the afternoon face up on the table.

So when I wandered back into the kitchen later on in the day, there was that maddening handwriting again.  You know, the same handwriting that had left me all those love notes and holiday cards and even to do lists.  Yup, there it was.  

And I looked closer.  The return address.  His name followed by an address we had never shared.  Will never share.

That's the kind of thing that takes its time before it kicks me in the teeth.  But once it burrows into my head, it sets up a keening whine that is never going to depart.  The best I can do is learn to live with it.

Someday I am hoping it won't bother me at all.  I'll let you know when that happens.