The Letter
     The clouds are growling outside. Oh great, the woman, now in her late thirties, thinks sarcastically, as if I need any more darkness in my life. She slowly drags her feet across the worn wooden planks on the floor and swings the rusty metal frame of the door. The clouds, with a dark, gloomy veil, hover above her. The woman slowly makes her way to the old mailbox, which seems to have been ignored by the mailman ever since she moved here. And yet, at precisely 4:30 every evening, she swings open the mailbox with such enthusiasm that the hinges creak, only to find an occasional spider or insect nesting inside, and closes it with a soft, disappointed thud. So at 4:30 this evening when she drags her feet to the mailbox and rattles the old mailbox open, the woman’s shock is conspicuous. Inside, there lies a single letter. It is old and worn out, and almost crumples when she delicately reaches to pull it out.
     Then the tears start after reading the first sentence of the letter. They roll down her thin, pale face and drip onto the fragile paper, smearing the neatly printed letters. Her calloused hand covers her mouth to stifle her sobs as her eyelids flutter shut. Behind her, the clouds part for the sun and send a ray of warmth through her body. Tears of shock and disbelief form rivers gushing down her cheeks.
     She had been through pain. Too much.
     And it is finally over.
     Tears of joy are unforgettable.