Standing in front of a mail box is almost ironic. In this day of the instant message, texting friends and anybody else, e-mails and other multimedia message platforms actually taking the time and effort to write a hand written letter and actually mail it is indeed ironic. Yet, hand written letters have a place in society, a place that can never be overtaken by the transmission of a digital message. So there she was, standing in front of the mail box holding a sealed envelope in her hands. One hand holding onto the envelope, the other hand perched to open the slot allowing the sealed envelope to be deposited in the care and safety of the Postal Service.

Still for the lady, time seemed to stand still. People passing by were unaware of the acute shift in the temporal atmosphere surrounding her. As she moved her arm, extending it towards the waiting handle, her heart continued to beat. The beat however increased as her arm and hand neared the waiting handle. The handle felt no emotion. As an inanimate object it was beyond feeling, it simply did. Still as time slowed for the lady and people passing continued to not notice a change in the temporal relationship between the reaching arm and the mail box handle, memories flooded the lady causing a tear to form in her eyes.

Tears are a good thing. They allow the eye to be cleansed of impurities and other contaminates. As the television commercial says ‘we have a ***** for that’. The plethora of products available to assist with the natural lacrimation of the eye is wide and varied. Modern medicine in conjunction with modern science has seen to helping even the unfortunate person who may be unable to produce natural tears, yet require an eye wash closely approximating real tears. For the young lady in question, her ability to form natural tears was still intact. Her tears were forming due to the contents of the envelope clutched in her hand. Many a sleepless night was spent wrestling with her inner self and her soul. Regardless of the length of her struggle, an answer would be inevitable. Yea or Nay.

Her envelope contained a simple hand written note. Not even long enough to be considered a true letter. Her missive was not about inquiring after family or telling of adventures of errant children. Hers was a mere plea for acceptance and a shout for help.

Dearest Daddy,

For that is what you are. I have completed my journey and long to come home. I have sorely missed both you and mama, yet have stayed away these years due to our mutual hurt. I apologize again that I cannot be the son you so desperately wanted. That is a path which I am no longer able to wander on. I have changed my body to conform to my minds’ image of who and what I am.

Daddy, I did not do this to spite you. I did this so that I might live to see the future. My travels have taught me about kindness and forgiveness. I forgive you and your transgressions against me. I would like to hug you and mama one more time before you go into that final resting place.

I have met several like me and they too often speak of abuse and cruelty at the hands of loved ones. I have tried not to indict you in that fashion, just recalling that you were uneasy with having a son as I was.

My travels have shown that you are a kind and good hearted man. Yet even in an era of increased tolerance, there are some things that are intolerable. Being separated from family is one of these things.

I will close and leave the decision to you. If I am allowed home, you will know what to do and I will see the answer to my prayer.
Know in closing that I love you very much.

Your loving daughter

Time ticked on and the hand and arm extended towards the mail box handle reached its’ destination. The handle was grasped and then the journey of the other hand began, the hand holding the envelope. Would it make the journey and deposit the envelope or would that journey be halted as so many other journeys had been halted in the past?