February Afternoon

They rest in a scrapbook, one that she had intended to use to display postcards. The pictures of New York and California have found a home in a dusty folder though and her real treasures have been placed on pages decorated with stickers of teddy bears and hearts.

The first envelope is sealed, taped to the page with the date written neatly just underneath. She’s never had reason to open this one. The contents don’t matter, it’s how it arrived that does.

It had come into her possession on a February afternoon, around the time the neighbor’s kids had climbed off the school bus.
She had been in her kitchen, stuffing plastic bags into a cardboard box. The idea of having a yard sale at the first sign of spring the only thing on her mind. A large one, with colorful signs and balloons, and ads in all the local papers.

The doorbell had rung and when she had answered he had been standing there, holding the envelope addressed to her. It had been placed in his box by mistake, and he had made a special trip worrying that she had needed it. She had given him a polite thank you, letting the door shut too quickly to hear his soft spoken goodbye.

She had watched him go, before letting the offer for a credit card fall into the trash. Only to fish it out seconds later.

The next envelope is blue, and the page it rests on leaves glitter on her fingers when she touches it. It’s been open, torn in her rush to see what it was.

He had delivered it to her after their fifth date. A quick stop by the daycare where she had worked at the time. The children had crowded around her, unable to read the words but curious as to why their friend had begun to cry.

She had dropped a box of markers in front of them. Ordered that pictures for their mothers were to be drawn before she rushed into the bathroom, knocking over the vase of roses they had purchased for her.

She had tossed it in the junk drawer when she got home. A reminder to never trust men again.

It had been recovered, carefully taped when they had met days later. An apology on his lips, and forgiveness in her heart.
The third page has no envelope, but a letter with words that appear to be written too quickly and crossed out expressions. It’s her favorite, the one he gave to her the night he’d spoken those three words. Pulling her into his arms, and wiping away the tears that had made it so hard to see the city behind them. She whispers that she loves him as well.

They had placed it on the page together, laughing as their fingers seemed to get tangled with each move they made.

She saves the next page for an item of what’s to come. A copy of the invitation, or perhaps a rejection from a cousin who doesn’t support her decision. The rest of the pages are to be left blank for now, waiting for when they have kids or a picture of future vacations with pictures of landmarks they’ve taken.

The wedding is set for a February afternoon.