A Blank Envelope

Once it was clear that the pandemic wouldn't disappear any time soon, I settled into a routine to maintain my sanity while working from home.

Mornings began with coffee, a pinch of salt to help ease the bitterness. As the machine sputtered and gurgled, I took slices from a loaf of cinnamon swirl bread and put them in the toaster. Just long enough to give them a little crisp. Top them off with a smear of plant butter so I could pretend that I cared about my health.

I couldn't be bother to wash the dishes more than once or twice a week, so my favorite mug was out of commission most days. Really, it was a small joy to be able to use it, but any mug would get the job done. Hold coffee with a little too much creamer added. I liked the smell of coffee more than the taste. I loved the effect the most.

The next few hours of my days were done on autopilot. Emails. Calls. Projects. They blended together now. Moments without discernable meaning. A paycheck deposited in my account every two weeks. That was all it was.

I used the sound of the mail arriving as a signal for lunch time. The unceremonious drop of my metal mailbox after it was filled was one of the few things that could pull me from my trance of work. And this way I wouldn't forget to grab the mail if I did it first during my lunch break.

Working from home meant that I stepped outside in my pajamas, hair pulled up into a messy bun. At first, I worried what my neighbors might think if they saw me like this. Now, I couldn't care less.

I expected the usual batch of mail--bills and junk--but today there was an extra envelope in the mailbox. A large brown envelope, bulging and wrinkled as though it'd been waterlogged and then dried.

I flipped it over and over, but there was neither name nor address written on it. No way to tell if it was meant to be mine or given to me by mistake.

So, I took it inside with the rest of my mail, set it on the table, and stared at it. The envelope felt rough and well-worn, like this wasn't its first stop or it had been lying around, forgotten, for a long time.

And I let it lie on my table, unopened, for a little longer.

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Even after I opened that envelope later in the evening, its contents remained on my table for days. A little black notebook with numbers written inside, and nothing else. No name. No explanation.

I spent hours trying to make sense of the numbers, but I couldn't find any purpose for them.

So, I made my own and divided them up into sets of lottery numbers that I filled out for tickets. I had no intentions of winning, and as weeks passed I was unsurprised that I left empty-handed after checking my tickets.

Until I didn't.

When the screen flashed "Winner" and "$20,000", I checked again and again until I was sure that it wasn't a mistake or a fluke in the system. The man working behind the lottery and cigarette counter watched me and asked if I needed help. I wasn't sure what to answer, so I handed him the ticket to confirm the win. And he did. I wasn't imagining it.

It didn't take me long to figure out what I'd do with the money. Nothing flashy. No new car or anything like that. I just wanted one less student loan hanging over my head for a degree I don't use.

A little less debt.

It felt like a simple dream.