Mail Me to Ida

A guy sends pieces of himself to a girl.

I pulled out my eyes and put them in a cardboard box addressed to Ida. The idea was that she would incorporate them into a hat or a headband so that I could say, “I have my eyes on you.” Of course, she would have to tell me whenever she was wearing them; I can’t see anymore. It’s kind of a dumb joke but I’ve been told that if you want something you have to go for it before fear has a chance to convince you otherwise.

            The mailman gave me a letter today. I hope it’s from Ida. I hope she says that she loves my present and that it’s a funny albeit poorly executed joke. I hope she says that she’ll come visit me soon. I can’t read it at all.

            I cut my heart out and mailed it to Ida. I suppose that’s a very cliché thing to say but its less cliché in this instance because I actually did it. I lost a lot of blood in the process but not too much, apparently. In truth I’m not sure how my blood is still pumping. Love endures through even the most difficult times, it seems. I hope the mailman can read the address. I can’t say for certain but I am confident that without eyes my handwriting has become atrocious.

            I mailed my voice to Ida. I reached down into my throat, pulled out my vocal chords, and put them in a box full of packing peanuts. I don’t know what the symbol or joke here is, or if there even is one; the idea just struck me and I felt like I had to. The urge was overwhelming.

            When I left my house to send the package, I heard a greeting and the mailman placed an envelope in my hand. He then inquired about my eyes. I said nothing. He offered to read the letter to me if it wasn’t in Braille. I shook my head and walked on. Ida’s words - if they were hers - were not for his eyes. Even if I can’t read them I will keep them. Hold them close.

            After some time of bumping into people and telephone poles, silently listening to the streets, I came upon the post office. No. The door handle was all wrong. This entire place was wrong. With any luck, though, I wasn’t far off. I’d made it there before. I could again. I thought to ask someone which street I was on, but how? Maybe if I had a marker and something to write on, but I didn’t have either.

            I was exhausted. Simple things like walking take a lot out of you when you’ve given away your heart, I learned.  But I kept on until I stumbled into a bench and lay down. Soon after, I was asleep.

            I woke to the cold silence of night. My box was gone. Maybe somebody took it to the post office. Maybe, but probably not. I sat up and thought to stand, wondering where I would go. There was a clicking of high heels coming close. As the heels walked past I reached out and grabbed a hand. It pulled away with nothing but a small grunt and the heels clicked faster, growing quieter each time. I sat for a long time in a world of nothing but myself. The heels faded into silence, but I could still feel the pressure of their tiny points against my brain.

            Finally I stood, picked a direction at random, and began walking. There were surroundings, ever changing, but it was hard to tell. So quiet when no one’s around. I hadn’t run into anything yet. I walked and walked for God knows how long, the whole time hearing nobody, nothing. I started to feel that reality was fading when my foot kicked something. An empty cardboard box. I sat down and held it up, stared into it. Not really, but a guy can pretend.

            My nose tickled and I sneezed hard. That was not mucus. I reached in and felt a smooth maze of little bumps. My brain was in there. I closed the box and set it down. I don’t know what happens next. I don’t know anything. I don’t even know how I’m still thinking. Maybe I’m not.