Getting mail from you is like
getting to buy one of those grab bags at the fair…
Wrapped up neatly in non-descript brown paper,
but holding any kind of unfathomable delight …
That in my joyous youthful state,
always feels like it is worth more
than the price I paid.
I love to unwrap your words,
cup them gently in my hands,
roll them over a few times
until I have examined them from every angle.
Sometimes, I delight in getting something close to,
but exceeding, what I had hoped to find.
Sometimes, a thing I’d never imagined before,
but now can’t seem to live without.
Sometimes a valuable bit of juicy goodness,
that somehow seems intended for someone other than me.
And lo, sometimes a thing
that makes me scratch my head in bewilderment
as I wordlessly utter a bemused “huh?”
It is always a good day at the fair.
I like the families,
and the way the chickens look so surprised
when you blow gently into their cages,
and anything made of protein that is fried on a stick.
I like the fair.
And yet it is not a complete day
until I get to pry open this treasure,
even though the adults warn me
in their best tsk tsk that
they only have these mystery items
to get rid of stuff no one wanted to buy.
I know they are wrong about that.
This treasure is what makes the day real,
my memento of hours of rich exploration
that I can take home and set upon my mantle,
touch whenever I want,
to summon forth memories
of the wind at the top of the ferris wheel,
where everything was visible and scary
and kind of boring all at the same time.