With trembling hands, I picked up the aged envelope. It was still moist from where Mambo’s saliva had dripped over it. Wiping it away with the sleeve of my shirt, I looked at the front of the envelope. Yes, it was addressed to me alright. At that moment, I knew I could just throw it away or burn it in the fireplace, and no one would be the wiser. Well, Mambo would, but then he was a dog. Intelligent as he was, even he couldn’t tell anyone what I’d done. Chucking the idea away, I studied the envelope again. It was one of those classic orange coloured ones, that had been very popular during my school days.
I let my gaze wander and it came to rest on Mambo, who was lying down by the fireplace gazing at me with his large brown eyes. I looked at him and smiled. As if on cue, he rose and walked up to me, gently nudging my knee with his head. I gave him a tickle under his chin, and he settled down comfortably near my feet. Suddenly there was a loud crash from the kitchen. Almost impulsively, I slid the envelope down the gap between my seat and the arm rest, as if to hide it. “Who’s there?” I asked, half expecting it to be Mr. Dutta’s mischievous cat (ironically named Angel), who often let herself in through the open kitchen window. “It’s just me, sir. I did not see the cup on the edge of the kitchen counter” replied Mrs. Greenwood, who recently had just celebrated her 20th year of employment with us.
As calmness returned, I silently dug out the envelope that I had tried to hide in between the sofa. I stared at it, hoping against hope, that it would vanish into thin air or burn itself up like one of those “Howlers” from the wizarding world of Harry Potter. “But even the Howlers only burst into flames once the message had been delivered” my inner consciousness admonished me. I sighed. I knew I should open it. I owed her at least that much. But seeing her neat, elegant handwriting after so many years, I could not help but feel a twinge of guilt and remorse. It had been almost five long years since she’d passed away in an unexpected skiing accident. Yet I often saw her face, clear as day, with the smile that made everyone fall in love with her, giving her the nickname everyone knew her by – Summer. And as much as I hated to admit it, I secretly had a fair idea about what was in the envelope.
With a loud sigh, one that caused Mambo to whimper questioningly, I neatly tore one of the sides of the envelope to open it. I lightly blew a whiff of air into the newly opened end of the envelope, which enabled me to slide out the neatly folded pieces of paper from inside it. As the paper slid out, I had to drop the envelope to catch hold of the parchments before it hit the floor. Mambo made one of his familiar low pitch whines as the pointed end of the envelope landed right between his eyes. Paying no heed to him, I slowly unfolded the first piece of paper. I recognised the insignia of our school, embossed across the top of the sheet. I looked at where the date was written in an all too familiar scrawly handwriting – 23rd October 1999. I tore my eyes away from the letter and looked at the digital wall clock that confirmed the present date as 23rd October 2013 – 14 years to the date this letter was written. Though I knew it was a freak coincidence, I couldn’t help but notice the irony behind it.
We’d been sitting side by side, with our bare feet dipped into the costly fish-pond that her father had specially made for their garden. Occasionally the odd fish would nip at our feet. Though it was ticklish at first, both of us had gradually started to enjoy it. (If only I’d taken her advise and started the “fish-spa” like she’d mentioned, I’d be a millionaire by now). She’d suddenly taken out two A4 sized sheets, which she’d managed to steal from our school library. And then she’d said “Write down ten things you’d want to have achieved by the time you are 30. So that’s like 14 years from now. Plenty of time to do those. You write yours, I’ll write mine and then we’ll seal it up together”. I had looked at her as if she had just gone crazy. Summer had never been one to indulge in these kinds of philosophical madness as I called it. She had smiled. The kind of smile which suddenly made you feel all warm and happy inside. “And what do you propose we do with this?” I’d asked with a smirk on my face. “Oh, let’s bury it in your yard. You know, under the soil kind of thing. And in 14 years time, we’ll check if its still there and see what all we’ve ticked off!” she’d replied without skipping a beat. Though I’d protested initially, as with all our arguments, it had ended the same way – doing what she’d wanted to do. And so we’d written and buried those letters, where they’d lain patiently in wait of their freedom. Which was today, when Mambo came across the plastic cover we’d enclosed it within, whilst digging for one his missing bones.
I looked back at the letter again. “Ten things that I’d wanted to achieve before 30” I thought. “I’ll be happy, if I’ve done at least 50% of that”. I could feel the rogue tears starting to do their work. Careful not to let my tears smudge the fading piece of paper, I slowly read the lines that I had hastily scribbled fourteen years ago, in the hope that they would sit comfortably on my “achieved before thirty” list.
I slowly folded the letter again, trying really hard to stem the steady flow of tears. Yes, she should have been there beside me. “But such is life. You dream of a lot of things when you’re still a teenager. Some of them happen. Some of them don’t” I thought as I looked at the “National Geographic Wildlife Photographer of the Year – 2012″ award that adorned the showcase alongside my other accolades. Looking down at Mambo, my golden retriever, still resting near my feet, I smiled. It was almost time for my daily jog with him. I looked down at the second folded letter still on my lap. Though I didn’t know what she’d written, the mere thought of having to read through it was heart-wrenching. Clutching the letters, I slowly walked into the study, which had now become my “Fortress of Solitude” as Superman would put it.
I sat down at the large oakwood table and slowly pushed away the rough manuscript draft for a thriller I was working on currently. I slid open the middle drawer and took out the apparatus I was looking for. Armed with both the letters and the equipment, I walked up to the fireplace and looked at the framed photo of the two of us together. It had been taken when we were 22, three years before she’d died. I was snapped out of my reminiscence by the sound of the gate opening. My wife was probably bringing my son back from school. I had to be quick. I held the papers in my left hand whilst trying to operate the equipment with my right. Due to the cold weather, it took a few minutes of coaxing before the unit had fired up completely. And then slowly I brought the letters towards the lit up lighter.
As I threw the burning letter parchments into the fireplace, I whispered “Good bye 16 -year- old me. Good bye 16-year-old Summer!”
I Wrote Those - by Sid Balachandran 
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