Letter Bomb

The weekend flies by and thanks to a double dose of pressure at work, I cut it a little short and return home on Sunday afternoon. It is a beautiful drive through the wetlands and traffic is light. I stop at the grocery store for a few items and treats for Trinket on the way. I am home in time for the second playoff football game of the day.

I walk in the door and great the kitty who has evidently missed me terribly. She is pouncing on me from head to toe and purring her little whiskers off. I am sure it has something to do with the fact that I will be using my opposable thumbs to open a can of tuna pronto.

Once the cat is settled infront of her dish, I return to the door to retrieve Friday and Saturday's mail. Junk. A late Christmas card. My W-2. Swim Club dues packet.

And a letter from Mom. Buzzkill that she can be.

I at first toss it on the table for later in favor of the game but then decide that I will only fester until I've opened it.

It contains 4 or 5, maybe 6 lined pages of notebook paper. The handwriting in ink, and in uncharacteristically small, tight script. Unusual for my mother.

This is not a good sign. I am no handwriting expert, but I can tell angry writing when I see it.

I unfold the top fold and begin to read:

Dear Liza,
You were such a disappointment at Christmas.

And just like that I am at a rolling boil and about to blow a carotid artery. I am shaking I am so angry.

I do not read a single word more. Not one. With my feet barely touching the floor I take to my desk. I uncap a pen and re-open the folded paper.

I mark a star on the paper at the end of the only sentence I've read, probably pressing a little too hard on the paper. I am glad I have a blotter or what I wrote next would be forever carved into the surface of my antique secretary desk.

I draw a line to the space at the top of the page from the star. The line ends in the 2 inch band of white space at the top where I angrily write, again, pressing way too hard:

"YOU are a complete failure as a mother. I read only this far in the letter and will read no further. I won't even keep this letter in my house."

I take a spare greeting card envelope from one of the little slots in the desk and fold the letter in half in its original envelope. I stuff it inside, address it and seal it. I affix two stamps. I want to make sure it gets there.

I have another moment of hatred. Mom is not the only one to blame. Bill should feel a sting too. I flip over the envelope and write on the back (again, with a little too much pressure):

"The stupid shelves Bill made that I've been told he did not want to give to me at all have been disposed of."

I stomp to the door and place it in the mailbox. I want no delay in its return.

There is part of me that thinks Mom mailed this early enough that it arrived on Friday while I was blissfully beginning a weekend at Scott's. She's probably gloating in her Carolina room thinking she really hit her mark since there has been no retort from me in days.

Not for long. I go to my center hall and pick up my land line phone. I want no dropped call issues for this call. I dial Mom and Bill's land line. She answers very cheerily.

I screech.

"I got your insipid letter and want you to know that I read exactly one sentence before I got rid of it. I have no interest in ever hearing from you again. Do not contact me."

And this time I got to slam the phone into its cradle. Very satisfying.