I suppose you might have left it there yesterday on purpose, or maybe you didn’t. Perhaps it flew from the plastic bag hanging on your motorbike or out the car window, unnoticed.
Still, it seemed odd to find an unopened, stamped and addressed envelope lying on the ground in a village market between the freshly butchered pork slabs dripping blood and stacks of sweet potatoes, sellers more concerned with shooing away flies than consummating sales.
I pick it up to feel the weight, not heavy but its thickness more than one sheet of paper, then imagine it to be a carefully penned love message, no, it’s a moving farewell, yet no dried tears are visible. But like always I switch the voice and think of bills unpaid or a nasty epistle to a former friend.
Psychological tests say, of course, an ethical person dismisses curiosity and posts the piece unopened. I debate what is inside and whether or not the contents are in a language I can read. The handwriting is beautiful, almost calligraphic, each letter small but perfectly formed.
Undeterred, I carefully place the envelope where I found it, leaving it for someone else to find. When I return from buying groceries it’s gone, but I continue to be haunted by that message, never received.
*Published in the San Diego Annual, Spring, 2009*