The Letter...

 

There it was, sitting alone on the time-scarred surface of that old mahogany table. She must have brought it in. 

Waiting in ambush, screaming like an air horn that only he could hear.

Almost a relief, really, after too many years of having his guts churn and twist every day, wondering if there would be a letter waiting to turn his life upside down, or end it, when he got home.

The envelope was fat, well-traveled.  No surprise there. Always unmistakable, he knew that handwriting, had a mental image of the writer. The irony of stamps that boasted of “equality” “justice” and “liberty” struck him like a hammer. Certainly intentional.

Now it was finally time. He knew he had to decide. After playing this out in his mind a few thousand times, this was it. Fish or cut bait, right?

He thought of his stainless 38, perched on top of the armoire. He thought of the couch where he was sitting and the clean wall behind him. The white wall like a canvas for some Pollock explosion of crimson blown across a field of lumpy gravy.

He thought of the Jeep keys, and the full tank of gas.

He thought of somewhere over the rainbow and he thought of oblivion.

Nothing could make the letter go away. Now he was the one who had to go.

One way or another.