My daily walks in the park with Minnie are alone time for me. Well, I’m there with Minnie of course but we’re each doing our own thing. I’m listening to my podcasts. Minnie is, as far as I can see, trying to eat, sniff, pee or poop on every object in the general vicinity of the house.
I see a lot of the same people. We nod hello to each other. We’ve been nodding hello to each other for OMG six years now. Lots of us bipedal introverts at the park.
One of the regulars who I’ve never talked with is a gray-haired woman who has an extra-cheerful smile. I am suspicious of complete strangers who greet me overly cheerfully out in public.
Today I could tell this woman wanted to speak, so I shut off my iPhone and pulled the headphones out of my ears. She handed me an envelope, said she’s a writer and hoped I enjoyed this. And I said thank you and put it in my pocket and kept on walking.
This is what blogging used to be like before the Internet, right? You had to go to the park and hand people stuff.
The envelope is on my desk in front of me now. It’s a standard, white, blank, sealed business envelope, with several sheets of paper folded inside.
I’ll open it now. I suspect this will prove to be anticlimactic.
And that’s done. It’s a three-page essay, printed out on white paper with lavender ink, about how the scent of flowers blowing in through an open window reminded her of a dead loved one, and how she now rejoices when people she loves pass on because they’re now experiencing divine bliss.