When the white envelopes arrive in the mailbox, I expect them to be there. Those self-addressed, stamped envelopes I toss into larger envelopes that contain manuscripts I’ve slaved over before submitting to various places hoping someone finds my work worthy always return home sooner or later. I’ve gone quite a stretch recently without any landing on the doorstep. At least a dozen are floating around out there. I wonder what that might mean, when I dare to think about it. What I anticipate is opening the mailbox one day soon and having a dozen of these envelopes fall at my feet, slapping the porch with such force it will almost sound like someone whispering “I told you none of your stuff is any good!”
So when my husband handed me a white envelope the other day, I simply shrugged. At first glance I did not notice that there was a return address hand-written on the back. Instead I wondered why someone had written my name and address on the front of the envelope. Where had the address label that I always use gone? Had it fallen off? Had I made a mistake and forgotten to put it on? The postage stamp was the kind I use, the envelope identical. Someone had taken the time to hand address a rejection letter to me? Oh! Maybe they wrote me a note then to tell me why they didn’t find my work suitable for their publication. I ripped it open.
And read the letter enclosed twice before realizing that my poem had been selected as an “Honorable Mention” entry in a contest. I’d forgotten about entering the contest, one I’ve entered often and had some success with. Last year I’d won first prize. I had hesitated to submit this year, imagining that they would certainly pass on my work and give someone new a chance. What a pleasant surprise to be selected again!
Wonders never cease.
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