The other night I came home to find a business-sized envelope addressed to me in a woman’s handwriting in blue ink.
“What’s this?” I muttered and opened it.
Inside was my original birth certificate, birth registration certificate from the Office of Vital Statistics, and my Social Security card. There was no note, but there didn’t need to be one, because only one person would be in the position to have them.
I immediately understood why I couldn’t find these things years ago. I’d assumed they got lost in the shuffle during one of my moves. With a mental shrug, I had replaced my birth certificate and SS card as I needed them, and didn’t give it much thought.
Here they were now, in my hands, sent by someone I’ve never met, but with whom I have something in common: A man. For me, it was years ago, and she’s with him currently.
Having the originals gives me comfort, especially since both of my parents are gone now.
And it also gives me that closure that I never received when things ended. I thought maybe we could meet 30 years from now and have a fine chuckle over the messes we created for each other when we were young and spry, but receiving this envelope makes that unnecessary. When you assume someone you were with for 11 years now hates you, and then they perform a simple act of kindness and you realize they probably don’t, it’s a huge relief.
I briefly considered mailing a thank you note, since Mike and I are about to mail a bunch related to our wedding and we have a box of them. I even thought of three simple and sincere sentences of gratitude. But I decided to send my gratitude into the universe instead.
Thank you, thank you, thank you.