"Better Than Snail Mail"

 

When I was a kid, there were plenty of times when I wanted to send someone mail but couldn't get to the post office in time or was a few cents short of the money I needed to buy stamps. In those cases, I made a trip to see Mr. Aves.

I still remember the time I made a card for my grandmother when she lost her job. Allowance Day was two days away; I was a sucker for tater tots and so had gone back and paid for seconds at lunch at the school cafeteria; in short, I was a handful of pennies away from what being I called "broke," and so I went to ask if Mr. Aves could help. I was only expecting a robin or a sparrow. But he took my pennies and from the bunch plucked one that had all the shine of the morning on it. "Well, now, here we have something special," he told me. "For this, we can do for your grandma something very nice." From his cages he brought out a kestrel, young and razor-thin and spectacular, and gave the bird my card to deliver to my grandmother. 

More than anyone, I think Mr. Aves understood the magic of getting a letter in the mail.

"The Message"

 

I've had a lot of time to think while I've been in here. Once I was able to come by some paper and a pencil, I finally put the time to use. That's when I started writing her the letters, just to let her know that I was okay.

I don't know how a caterpillar ended up in a prison yard. There's a really heavy metaphor in there somewhere, though. At least it feels like there is. But when I saw the caterpillar the other day, I remembered this story my grandma told me once about a girl who whispered a message to a caterpillar, and when the caterpillar hatched into a butterfly, it had the message written all across its wings. Not sure what put that story back in my head that after all these years. As I said, I've had a lot of time to think.

Today I found my caterpillar in the yard. The flies had found it, or at least the piece of it that was still there on the pavement, before I did. And I hate having this thought now with the picture of that squished little thing so close by in my mind, but the person I've been writing to, she hasn't written back to any of my letters yet. I just hope she's getting them. And I hope she's okay. Because when I write them, even when I finish them, and I fold them up and bring their edges close, I feel free. For a little while, anyway.