24 To You, From Me By Christen Kessler When you left the diner last night, you had been crying. You had a little pink slip of paper clutched in your hands and mascara running down your face. The night was so cold that your breath fogged the air around your face and the water on your face stung as it froze. Your tears nearly rubbed off the stenciled hearts on your cheeks that you spent forty minutes trying to get perfect before work. The cold seemed to finally cut through the haze of sorrow, a breeze cold enough to freeze Hell rocked you to your core. You sniffled, but from the cold or from crying you were not sure. But it was enough to snap you from your whirling thoughts and zip up your raggedy winter coat. When you get your final check you should really get a new jacket because this one did nothing to keep the chill from reaching your bones. The little pink slip, that stated you were being fired from the diner, fluttered out of your hand with another sharp gust of wind. Grasping after it with frozen hands, you watched as the slip disappeared beyond the building. You cursed under your breath, seeming to wish that you would wake up and realize today was just a nightmare. Giving a frustrated sigh, you turned on your heels and marched off toward your apartment. The snow on the ground did nothing to deter your determined steps, as you were used to snow. You grew up in the northern part of Minnesota, so close to the Canadian border you could see it from the top of your house growing up. Snow was something that you were able to walk through since you took your first steps, so the measly three inches that we have in Virginia right now feels like home. The walk home seemed to help ease your tension, and perhaps it was the cold weather reminding you of home or just the cool, crisp air that gave you a chance to relax. Either way, when you finally got back to your building a weight had been lifted off your shoulders and your tears were entirely forgotten. You climbed the steps to your apartment, feet aching from work and the walk. The landlord said that the elevator would be fixed before Thanksgiving. It’s now Valentine’s Day and the lift still doesn’t work. You are too kind-hearted to raise a stink about it to the landlord, but it doesn’t stop you from cursing his name with every step. Sitting in front of your door is a large box—you freeze when you see it. You weren’t expecting a package today. You approach the box with slow meticulous steps, not getting any closer than you need to. You inch closer until you can make out the words written on the top, “To You, From Me.” Your breathing hitches and tears start fresh down your face. A sob of horror tears from your throat as you back as far away from the box as the narrow hallway will allow. I sat by my computer screens watching you, an amused smile dancing on my lips. When you moved you thought we would lose touch, but I told you when you ran away from me back in Minnesota that I would never let that happen again.
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