It Says Here, In Fine Print

I gather the Letter Bomb and place it with the other junk mail on the dining room table. It is not imminently important. I greet the kids and whilst smothering each with millions of kisses, I mention the mail from Grandmomstella...and the fact that backpacks need to be put away, shoes need to find homes, I need sandwich containers and thermoses from lunch, and dinner is in 20 minutes, so wrap up the XBox contest and shower now if you want to be done before dinner.

The envelope sits untouched by human hands for several hours. Moved out of the way so Hil can set the table.  Moved again so Trinket can sit in her usual Orange Cat Watching Spot.  Moved again so Hil could dust and earn allowance sufficient to buy the makeup she's been coveting on some new super-reduced-pricing website. 

Finally, when I have done all the chores I had before me, and have paid some bills, and watched Glee with Hil, and listened to her tell the tale of some cute boy that looked at her in some telling way that day, and lamely repeated Spanish phrases about food and common courtesies so Pat might pass his quiz, I ascend the stairs to take a shower and shave my legs so I could even think about wearing a skirt the next day without being mistaken for Sasquatch.

Before I do I place the envelope next to Hil on the end table, anchoring it with a couple of of left over Easter candies she'd decided upon for a treat, and remind her that she's got mail. I am pretty sure I hear her opening it as I turn on the landing.

I return to the living room some time later, shaven and squeaky clean and lotioned to the hilt, and see that the envelope is open. It had contained a letter, not a card, and I can see neat even lines of Estelle's just-this-side-of-crazy handwriting all across the page, nary a space in sight.

I casually ask Hil about the letter. She is nonplussed. "Oh, she says thanks for the card and likes the picture and something about 1959. I don't know. I don't really read cursive. Not Grandmomstella's cursive."

What a riot. Most kids would be thrilled to get mail of any kind (I was thrilled at Hil's age to get my official Smokey the Bear Fan Club letter, for Chrissake) but this letter doesn't rate.

I ask if I can read it. Hil waves me off as if to say, " Read it. Burn it. Line a birdcage. What-ev."

Her synopsis was dead on. Only Estelle is trying very hard in this letter to appeal to my children. Come across as the sweet grandmotherly type. Mentions their beloved grandfather (from whom she was divorced, mind you) in a kindly way.

Call me a conspiracy theorist, but Estelle is up to something.