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Reading the letters here and now will make me late for my shift at the grocery store, and there’s a large shipment of late summer vegetables coming in from the countryside today.
And me? Am I a frivolous girl who saddles other people with extra work? Certainly not.
The letters weigh heavily in my bag for the remainder of my commute. I’m determined to keep them there and not peek at them. Focus, Josephine.
Everything has a time and place and a compartment. Emotional journeys are not part of my plan today.
Throughout my day at the village’s only supermarket, my thoughts wander to the letters. I’m so curious.
I can’t fathom how that many deliveries never reached me when I lived with my father in England. And I wonder who sent them back to the capital city in Gravenland. And why have they surfaced now, after all these years?
The market bustles with villagers and tourists alike, wandering the aisles, perusing the fresh produce and locally crafted goods. I handle the vegetable delivery and all the associated paperwork.
I do what I always do. I make small talk with the familiar deliveryman and help the stock people unload the crates. I help the new cashiers when they get flustered by the ancient cash registers. I reorganize the end caps to make them more tempting.
The toughest moments are when I’m alone in my office at my computer: making signs, entering data, rifling through job applications, and paying vendors. All throughout the day, I catch myself stealing glances at my bag, yearning for the end of my work shift.
My shift finally ends after eight hours, after what feels like twelve. Normally, my workday flies by with all the varied and mildly fun tasks that keep me busy. Today has been utter torture.
I barely contain my frustration as the evening manager shows up to work five minutes late, a regular occurrence that typically does not bother me in the least.
I huff out a restless farewell to my colleagues, then practically skip through the village streets on my way back home.
First, wine.
With trembling hands, I uncork a bottle of rather-expensive-for-me Beaujolais that I’ve been saving for a special occasion. It’s time. This is the most exciting occasion that has happened since Mr. Lundgren’s 80th birthday pub crawl.
I settle onto my well-worn sofa, the letters spread out before me like treasure.
Should I read them oldest to newest, or vice versa? Oldest to newest, obviously. This is a man’s life journey, after all. What sense would it make to go backwards?
The first envelope, fifteen years old, is delicate in my hands as I carefully tear it open.
I take a sip of wine as I read the first lines.
“Dear Josephine,”
Immediately my heart hammers in my throat. No one calls me that, no one except the still, small voice in my head. And Jakob, as I now recall.
I’ve been Jo or Josie to everyone my whole life—everyone but Jakob. He always called me Josephine because he said it sounded like a name “fit for a queen.”
I need more wine for this. A lot more. I read on:
“I hope you like England and your schoolmates are nice to you. I’m doing awesome in art class. I wish you were here to help me with maths. Yesterday I knocked on your bedroom window as I was leaving for school. I forgot you don’t live there anymore. Walking to school alone is fine, though. The group home let me have an old iPod because the director is getting a smartphone or something. Anyway, I found a podcast on it you should listen to. These funny Americans recap that monster hunter show you like. I wish your dad would buy you a flip phone. Even the group home lets us have them to take to school for emergencies. I can sneak one at night sometime if you want to talk. I know, I know. You’d probably be too worried I’d get into trouble. Here’s the number to the group home, in case you forgot, haha. Send me your new number, ok?”
The wine eases down my throat as the picture of Jakob appears in my head. I smile at the memory of him squirming through Supernatural as I swooned.
I read the next letter, and right away I’m punched in the gut by guilt as he writes:
“Hey, hope you’re okay. Haven’t seen any letters from you but that’s fine. I’m doing great! I made the rugby team, even though rugby isn’t my favorite…”
He didn’t get my letters? How is that possible?
Wouldn’t it be wild if by some twist of fate, Jakob is somewhere reading my old newly-discovered letters?
The four or five letters I sent, that is, before I gave up.
On and on I read, and before I know it, I’ve demolished half the bottle of wine and I’m barely halfway through the stack.
