A letter fell through the door this morning, it had hand writing I didn’t recognise and postage marks that were also unfamiliar.
I hesitantly open the letter. Inside I found a copy of a poem I had sent someone a long time ago, now it seems that poem has returned to me, but it is more than what it once was.
Reading the letter that accompanied the poem I feel a stunned. Was I dreaming? No. I reread the letter and it finally sunk in, the poem I sent away so long ago has returned to me with a request to be published in a collective book of poetry.
This may only be a small achievement in the grand scheme of things and there are many who’s work is far more beautiful than mine, but someone somewhere for the briefest moment connected with the words I had written.
I guess there really is no story not worth hearing.