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Mike Henneke is a dad blogger, journalist and responsible for the Hindenburg disaster. (Just ask his wife.) He has aspirations that sometimes include Costco peach pie, and hasn't received a call from the school principal in three weeks.
I don’t expect to see her letter there.
But there it is, buried in the stack of junk mail, letters and the weekly Rite Aid ad.
At first I think Barb has mailed a letter without enough postage. It’s one of the biggest fears of hers, I think, rivaling that of sharks and music not produced by Josh Groban.
“Is that enough postage?” Barb asks every time she hands me letters to mail.
“I don’t know,” I respond. “The Post Office may ban you for sure this time.”
“This one may take four stamps,” she tells me. “You better check it, just to make sure.”
“You’re only mailing some protons. I think you’ll be OK.”
So at the mailbox, I think she’s actually done it, mailing a letter without sufficient postage.
Then I realize the letter is addressed to me.
I’ve got mail. From my wife.
At first I think it’s a husband performance evaluation. Or maybe it’s a rejection of my idea to get her a lifetime subscription to ACME Lingerie Co. from Topeka, Ka.
But the envelope is too nice. It looks like a birthday card, except that’s not for another 11 months.
I open it up to find a card with a very heartfelt message inside to me.
Our work schedules are such that we might see each other for 15 minutes a day. It’s hard to find time to grow close together, to keep that foundation strong.
Some day our circumstances will change and she will complain that I am spending too much time with her in our empty nest.
“Go play with your teeth or something,” I can picture her telling me, while flinging my suspenders or my cane at me.
For now, I will do what I can to make sure to let her know how much I love her.
All because of a reminder in the mail.
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