Your prompt today: the letter.
The Canucks won again tonight - in regulation time, no less - so they're up 3 games to 1 now. Their first shot at sealing the deal comes Saturday night in Vancouver. Hopefully it only takes one try this time.
It was a perfect day to spend working outside, so that's what we did. Life is good.
The letter did not arrive by the normal route. No stamp adorned its envelope, and it was not found in the mailbox attached to the gate but propped against the front door. There was no return address either, but I had grown used to that.
I stooped to pick it up and then eased myself into the rocking chair lurking on the porch. It took a few tries to pry it open - my fingers seemed to have a mind of their own by then. As I unfolded the paper I caught a faint whiff of vanilla and my eyes closed for a moment to allow the memories to flood in.
There was no name at the top, but there didn't need to be one in order for me to know that I was the intended recipient. I read it over quickly, the words squeezing together to make unpronounceable and unknowable words. Then I started over from the beginning and forced myself to slow down.
Three years had crawled by since the last letter but she wrote as though no time had passed at all. She provided no hints as to where she might be, didn't bother asking questions I wouldn't have been able to reply to. But it was enough for me to know that she was still alive.
And that the cops hadn't tracked her down yet.