Monday, September 22, 2014


I went to the mailbox today kind of in a doleful, hazy, dream.
Another rough one today for whatever reason.
A million reasons.
I opened the mailbox and saw a padded manilla envelope I assumed was for our wonderful upstairs neighbor.
Sorting through what was left in the mailbox, I glanced once more at the envelope.
It was addressed to me.
I pulled it out and read the label.
My address.
The return address.
I stood outside in the warm wind holding the envelope I know contained beautiful little treasures she wanted me to have.
Tiny trinkets of affection attached to the hope that they would lift me up just a bit.
But I didn't open it.
Instead, I sat on the curb like I did when I was a little girl on Forest Drive and turned the envelope over and over in my hands.
Rubbing my thumb against the front.
"Fragile" (must be Italian, I thought with a smirk) written in swirling artistic cursive on the front.
Beautiful 9/11 stamps lined up perfectly.
I even smelled the friggin thing.
I grasped that envelope and I wept today.
Stop being a pussy Gia.
Yeah? Well FUCK OFF.
I cried holding that envelop from my friend Meryl.
It had been in her hands a few days earlier. She had written the addresses and "Fragile".
She had taken the time to seal it, buy stamps, and bring it to her post office over a thousand miles away from where I sat at that very moment.
I have this friend, I thought.This beautiful, funny, tough, savvy, true blue friend, who goes through her own shitload of personal, physical problems that she can't get a straight answer about.
Doctors are SUPPOSED to do that.
That's ALL they're SUPPOSED to do.
They tell you what's wrong and help fix it. Nope. Not yet anyway, not for awhile.
I have this friend who sent me this envelope.
"HANDLE WITH CARE", it says.
That's what she's doing to and for me.
Handling with care.
And me, I'm sitting out on the curb crying because this envelope shows me just how much she really, really does.

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