And on I ploughed. I told her that her actions stung and that her quick tongue hurt, too, and the fact that she was allowed to get away with everything didn’t make it OK. Besides, I wrote, I wasn’t the only one she treated that way. I’d observed things that were not mine to meddle in but now, under the circumstances, I thought she would benefit from knowing the repercussions. In fact, there were several people who might benefit from her knowing, even if I didn’t.
I changed my mind about writing to the doctor. I don’t want to shoot the messenger. I need him. I have an appointment in a couple of weeks – Eunice, the receptionist, tracked me down! – and I want him to behave like a doctor, not an apologetic victim. I guess he was only doing his job.
I’ve sat looking at these damned envelopes for days (too many crosses on my calendar). But, aware I’m wasting valuable time, I finally summon the courage to let them go and here I am, standing in front of a bright red post box.
If anyone’s watching me, they’re probably wondering what on earth I’m up to. I put my hand out to let go, then pull back. I stand and ponder. I count them in case I might have dropped one. I check the addresses. I question my motives. Do I really want to post them? Isn’t it enough to write them; to observe the wisdom of the gurus and simply file them away?
And then I remind myself. I am dying.
So I get a grip and push the letters into the red slit of mouth.
And finally, with a flourish, I let them go.
It feels scary. My heart skips a beat, wishing I could climb in and retrieve them, but I turn around and walk back home.
I did it! I actually did it. And I feel brave.