Page 17 of Love Letters to Christmas

Unless…it means something?

But it couldn’t. It wouldn’t. Itdoesn’t.

You don’t sayI like youunder a tree coated in fairy glow during a sunset andnotkiss the person you’re talking to if you meanlike-like. That’s a rule. I’m positive. Completely positive.

A swallow sticks in my throat as I settle myself onto the corner of my bed and stare.

I don’t want to break the wax. It’s a plain seal, strictly one color, nothing like the ones I put together with flecks of fake gold dust, flower petals, or gems. The motif is an elegant, if simple, rose.

I love it.

I deeply, deeply love it.

And I will not be breaking it.

I would rather die than break this.

I would also rather die than rip the envelope open.

My hands need to stop shaking if I’m going to manage reaching my letter without hurting any part of it.

Carefully, I ease the adhesive apart, exhaling damp breath along the seam until it comes undone. Saving the entire seal on my desk beside my own organized collection of stamps and colors, I return to my bed and stare at the open envelope.

“It means nothing,” I whisper to emotionally prepare myself, then I slip the faded paper free, unfold it twice, and read…

Dear A-mail-ia,

Forgive the shade of passion upon the flap of this letter’s warm embrace. I know the code of seals; it’s such a beautiful part of mail’s history. From the days of Benjamin Franklin to the present electronic mail, nothing quite compares to a weathered envelope in the firelight as wax melts.

My reason for shirking such an honorable andimportant symbolism is really on the insipid side of logic. I’d be ashamed of myself if this letter’s recipient were not you.

You see, plainly, I have noticed that you gravitate toward blue shades, and I know you’ve an impressive collection of wax seals and colors already. I merely wanted you to have a favored hue since I know you—like me—are one to save memories like this down to the final piece.

Heh. Look at me. Writing you a letter, and spending half the page explaining that I don’t mean to make you uncomfortable.

This isn’t what I wanted to say, but maybe I’m stalling because I’m not quite sure how to put it all into words.

Allow me to try, at least, before I’m out of paper.

I’m glad you’re here, A-mail-ia.

I have missed you, dearly.

Working with you in the mailroom and at the office is a unique joy. You are like sunlight upon still water, a glass sparkle that’s nearly impossible to look at it’s so beautiful. Your soul and spirit, however tortured by life’s disrespectful whim, remain angelic.

I see the care you put into everything and everyone. Even me.

And I need you to know I am grateful.

Mail brings joy.

Nothing can quite compare to the simple joys of receiving a letter or opening a package. It brings people together. It crosses distance with physical displays of affection. It provides something to hold, something to catch tears, something to draw to an aching chest as emotions swell.

Mail is beautiful.

And when I’m near you, I see similar beauty.

Thank you for coming into my life again,

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