A Short

"Maybe you need someone cynical, a woman who postures herself in a mix of hopefulness and hatred of the world." She thought of telling him, but regularly held her tongue allowing the words to sway back and forth on her brow. What did she know anyway? Closing her eyes, she imagined it though. The two of them together. The brilliant woman so wounded, finding strength in words and tightly laughing when she encountered those beneath her. And him, unaware, disciplined, engaging everyone he met with his warmth and ideas. What did she have to offer him anyway? The other woman was mysterious, withdrawn, confident. Comparatively, she felt like a school girl.

Sitting up, she forced her eyes open. She could write a book with all of the scenarios she dreamed up behind closed lids. She sighed and looked out the window. Sun. Again. Couldn't the weather cooperate long enough to coordinate with her mood? Her insides longed for grey, overcast skies. She considered the idea again. What if she actually uttered those words? Maybe he'd leave her. Maybe he'd stay. She was a tornado of complete hope and utter despair, but cynical she was not.

The bell rang, pulling her from the sudden stupor. Throwing on the over-sized robe, she rubbed her face, sighed again and headed for the door. Opening it, she saw no one -- though a freshly placed cardboard box blocked the stairs. It was large and fairly cumbersome. She crossed over it to pick it up from below. Now especially conscience of her appearance and the possibility of being seen by a neighbor, she awkwardly lifted the not-so-heavy box and quickly headed inside.

Managing to lift it onto the bar in the kitchen, she stared at it. Her name and address were listed in the "To" area, but curiously, her name and address were also listed in the "From" section. She had no memory of sending herself a package. Certainly she had not been thriving recently, but there's no way she would forget a detail like that.

Cautiously, she maneuvered a kitchen knife along the taped edges of the box. Pink packing peanuts spilled out onto the floor as she lifted the lid. Her hands swam through a sea of them, finally resting on a solid object. Pulling out a large paper-covered oval, she laid it aside digging through the peanuts once again. This time, she found a large manilla envelope and set it on the counter-top as well. Nothing remained in the box now.

Eagerly, she turned her attention first to the object. Unwrapping it, she discovered a mirror. Etched along the top edge was one simple word: Enough. Puzzled, she glanced at herself in it. The word rested above her sad face. She stared at herself now. Tears pricked from behind her lashes as she continued to glance from the word to her face. She noticed her emotions rising. Fearing they'd overtake her, she set the mirror down, reaching for the envelope. From inside, she pulled out a single sheet of crisp white paper. The hand-written message simply offered:

You are enough.
Look often.
Remember.

Now the tears came freely. In her over-sized robe, she crumpled to the floor. She was overcome.