Sacrifice

And ye shall offer up unto me no more the shedding of blood; 
yea, your sacrifices and your burnt offerings shall be done away, 
for I will accept none of your sacrifices and your burnt offerings.

And ye shall offer for a sacrifice unto me a broken heart and a contrite spirit

I left the finished letter lying on my desk, not wanting to seal it away.  I thought if I gave it time, took the extra minute or two to address the envelope, to find a stamp, then maybe I'd be ready to send it, but the finished envelope was in my hand and the letter was still on my desk.

It's the best you've written.

Every week I sit down to write a letter and every time it never comes easy.  I get the date, the "dear", and maybe a line or two more, but then it's done.  I turn the page over or pull it out of the notebook.  Start again.  And again.

If I'm lucky, I make it out of the first page but then . . . I don't know what to say.  I read back over the first page and decide it's not good enough.  That page gets pulled out and I can almost hear my pen groaning -  Again?  Really?

After 12 or so tries, I might have a letter and I might be able to say, it's good enough.

But not this letter, the one lying finished and folded on my desk.  I had sat down and like a ship finally catching the wind in its sails, I had started to write.  Down the first page, over the corner, back down again and on to the second.  I wrote and I wrote, the ideas writing themselves and my pen relieved to finally have a decent partner.

It's the first time, the first time the writing wasn't forced, wasn't pulled kicking and screaming through the window of your imagination but walked in like an old friend with a key to your flat.

But here it was now.  The only evidence that I had ever felt the spirit of a writer and been its scribe.  Folded up and addressed to someone else.  Once it was gone, it would belong to her.  Hers to leave unopened and unread.  Hers to read once, maybe twice, even show it to someone else.  Hers to leave in the bin beside her desk.  My letter, with the words that walked through me, entirely in her hands.

It might not happen again.

I read the name on the envelope once and checked it again.  And then I put the folded letter inside.

Only to her

Later that morning, I came to the large red mailbox outside my college.  I felt the weight of the letter in my hands, checked the amount of the stamp, read our addresses, and slowly rested the letter on the lip of the slot, held it there for a moment, and dropped it inside the tall, red mailbox.

Only to her

My hands felt cold just then and I walked back inside the college, slowly pushing my fingers down inside the pockets of my jeans.  But instead of just going straight back, I stopped to check my mail.  With my hands still hopelessly buried in their pockets, I rounded the corner, entered the office, and peered into my narrow mail cubby.  One small letter was sitting inside, leaning against the wall with its back to me.

It's from her.

And I already knew it.