It’s extremely cold in Boston tonight. Cheeks painful from the frost, I let myself into my dark apartment - after the usual battle with the front door, which I need to shoulder with all my weight in order for it to open - and walk into my bedroom. For some reason, I had made my bed this morning, and now there was a package placed on top of the neat blankets. I think my brain was still slightly frozen from the walk back from campus, because my first dumb thought was that it was a bill (since when do T-Mobile send their bills in bulky white packages?). Then I read the address on the top left-hand corner and my brain thawed enough so that I recognised what it must be and I squealed.
A while ago, I wrote Melissa and Meaghan a letter, just like they suggested. And I was excited, buying stamps (stamps!) and taking a trip to the snug little campus post office where the guy who works there recognised me as being Irish and struck up a conversation about various suburbs of Dublin. I sent off my letter and then I half forgot I had done it and then it landed on my bed this evening, capping off what has been a fairly great Thursday. I had to take a knife to the packaging to get it open, standing in my kitchen still wearing my hat and scarf and heavy coat and boots and one glove, dying to pee but wanting to get it open before I did anything else. Finally, the book was in my hands. “It’s an actual book!” I thought, almost surprised at its heft. Melissa had included a wonderful letter about Boston, which I read through twice before I allowed myself to move. It felt like another blessing, in what - so far - has been a year full of these surprise moments, little delightful curlicues.
This is the sexy full-stop to a wonderful sentence of a day.
(Also pictured, the amazing/terrible Hallowe’en knitted vest I bought yesterday for $3, because obviously. Unseasonal, I know. But once next October rolls around, I’m going to be STYLIN’)
