A woman knocks on the door and leaves a package. The return address marks from South America, despite the smudges. As you stoop to grasp the thin, manila package from between the screen and the door, you see the woman turn the corner at the end of the block. Her outfit defies that of a postal carrier. The tail of her golden jacket flaps behind her as if waving, beckoning.
You squint your eyes from the doorway before retreating back into the warmth of your home. You drop into a chair at the kitchen table, curiosity brewing quickly. You don’t recognize the handwriting on the package; yet, you feel a familiarity with the stamped-over postage, the stripes indicating airmail, the ragged wear on the envelope’s corners. You suddenly stand in line at the post in San Jose, the sickly smell of rosey disinfectant and the clacking echo of register keys engulfing you. Your mild fear and repressed anxiety make their way out in the stammer your accented voice carries to the clerk. --Tengo una caja de cac - em - feces de perros para enviar a un laboratoria de investigacion en los estados unidos. Em - esta con - em - hielo.-- You are met with a cold stare.
The adhesive closure tatters away from the folder pocket enticingly. A quick tug and the strings of gum stretch loose. A cascade of butterflies, golden and blue in shimmering hues, swarms from the package, tickling the air around your startled face and rearing head. The fluttering entity finds a crack in the window screen making it’s graceful escape. As you breathe a grateful gasp of surprise, a single sheet of rose-colored paper slips out of the manila, landing slippery onto the oak table. --Que las embras se reunan con las hijas de la sierra; que los machos busquen su remedio en el subsuelo de la tierra.--
