Postage

Of course I panicked as soon as I came to my senses.

What had I done.

The note was simple enough. It never hinted of any interest or plan. I wished him well, offered my friendship, and hoped that he was doing well. That was all.

The real question was would he receive it. It had been a few years since we had last spoke. I barely remember his face, let alone any details of his address or personal whereabouts. I only knew of the precinct. I assumed he had been there for a while, comfortable with his team and his responsibilities. I assumed he had built a following of loyalty amongst the fellow officers.

I assumed if they received the note, and he was no longer at that location, that it would be forwarded it on.

I hoped, actually, that the note would land on the desk of a friend.....if not his own. I imagined if it did reach him, some idle evening, early in the shift. He sees the corner of the envelope in his Inbox and wonders about it's creme color. Not a standard white envelope.

The return address, short and sweet. Valid, in case you're wondering. Just the initials - J.M. I imagine he would wonder, and be unable to place the PO Box in the city.

The "To" address, his first name in quotes, a nod to his tale of martial arts mastery. I remember the confusion on the phone to the operator of the precinct when I phoned, once, to make plans. "I'm sorry, there's no one here by that name," she said, unsure. Minutes later, my cell phone rang, his smooth voice letting know that I had reached the right location. "West isn't your real name, is it?" I asked. "No," he answered back quickly, ending the conversation.

I hope that a small laugh escapes him as he reads my PS, a nod to an inside joke between us.




But even in the far reaches of possibility that he could receive a five year old note....

....will he write back?