gift exchange

When I came home tonight, after opening the front door to the deteriorating Victorian conversion where I reside, my eyes fell onto an thick white envelope with my name on it. I was surprised. It didn't look like anything commercial. My name was written in ink and by hand. Had anyone belatedly remembered my birthday and sent me a wonderful gift, I wondered. Then I recognized the handwriting. It was my own.

Now I really started to wonder. How pathetic am I? Did I send myself a birthday present? And why so late – did I forget my own birthday? I carried the padded envelope into my apartment, my head softly shaking with bafflement. Slowly the origin of the letter dawned on me. I had sent it, about a month ago, to my mom, for her birthday. In it were a card and two CDs. It turned out the letter was returned because it had the wrong address on it, her old address, of six years ago, which is different from the current one only by a number and a letter, but that was enough to derail delivery.

The good thing was, it could have come worse. A frustrated mailman could have thrown the letter into the rubbish bin or taken it home and enjoyed sweet music. Instead, I had it back and could send it again, making sure to correct the address first. But first first, I'd rip both CDs. A month earlier, there was no time, not even the few moments to slide a disk into a computer and press the burn button. My head was everywhere else, trying to get stuff ready for the conference and things organized and packing. The next day, I slept from exhaustion on the plane.

Now I'd have all the time in the world. I opened the envelope, slicing through a sealed plastic bag that contained it. A label informed me that the envelope had unfortunately been damaged, but Deutsche Post had taken great pains to ensure the integrity of the shipment by enclosing it in this transparent pouch. I was reassured, tipped the torn envelope aslant and let the contents slide out.

Now my head started bopping in bafflement again. I didn't remember gift-wrapping the CDs. Surely there had been no time. And I didn't recognize the wrapping. What was going on? Who was playing tricks? I shredded the thin paper and held, in trembling hands, a set of twelve tea-lights, red, strawberry-scented, and made in England.

That was two hours ago, and I still have no explanation. As I reordered the CDs from Amazon, having them sent directly to my mom's correct address, I tossed hypotheses around my head. Has someone stolen my CDs? But why the birthday card? And why put something back into the envelope? And why gift-wrap it?

It seems most likely that there was a little accident in a sorting office and several letters spilled open. Some unlucky postal worker tried to puzzle the contents back and didn't get it right. And some lucky bastard is now listening to the CDs that I still haven't ripped to my computer. At least I got a post for my dormant blog out of it, something I didn't expect when I walked into my house this evening.