Package

A Delivery Attempt

Last night, in a dream,
I took an Uber to deliver a letter to you.

Your current address.
My former address.
The same address.

The environment you live in.
The environment I once lived in.
An unfamiliar environment.

The same doorbell.
The same building number.
An unfamiliar relationship.

The same entrance and exit.
Our relationship—
no exit.

The concierge was on duty,
but on the phone.
He didn’t see me.
There was no need for a visitor record.
I entered the building reception area anyway.

He was still on the phone
as I searched for the blurred mailboxes.
I appeared in front of the concierge
like a transparent person suddenly becoming visible.
He wasn’t surprised,
nor alarmed,
as if he had already recognized me—
someone who once lived here.

I couldn’t find the blurred apartment number.
I couldn’t even recall the building number.

The concierge looked at me
and pointed to a mailbox in front of me.
He was still on the phone.
We used gestures instead of Google Maps
to search for the same coordinates.

Location locked.
In a grid of sixteen compartments,
third row, third column.

He gestured for me to open the mailbox.
I opened it
and found that it was a file box
used for public and internal building documents.

I understood.
He didn’t know who I was delivering the package to,
but he remembered me—
my soul.

So he planned,
after his break was over,
to help me search for the resident listed on the package.

In my memory,
a mailbox should easily fit
an A4 document package folded in half.
Who knew this was a joke played by fate.

Memory was too heavy.
The space too small.
Too much emotion—
unable to bear the load.

I turned toward the concierge on the phone
and pointed to the recipient’s name and address.
He also stood up from the chair in the resting area
and walked toward the reception desk.
He was still on the phone,
but showed no hostility toward me.

Yet he couldn’t remember—
who this person was.

Before entering the lobby,
I looked up at that unit—
the address where I once received mail.
I also saw that familiar silhouette
and the living room light,
which meant he had not yet gone to rest.

I used gestures to tell the concierge
that I could handle it myself,
because his address was still here.

I walked around the lobby once more.
Memory seemed to rearrange itself.
The eight buildings behind the reception desk
seemed to be playing musical chairs.
I could no longer find
where each building’s mailbox originally was.

I still relied on memory,
even though it might not be reliable.
But this package—
I had to deliver it
to the address where I once lived.

What was inside?
I don’t know.

I once thought
it might be a button—
once pressed,
our severed relationship would no longer exist,
and everything could start over.

I also thought
it might be a bomb,
forcing you to find the safety latch
within seven seconds of opening it
and defuse the crisis.
Just like you taught me:
“Your final seven seconds
depend on whether your mind is calm enough.”

I thought even more
that it might simply be a bottle of hand cream,
because the weather has turned cold,
and your hands—
like your grandfather’s—
might need hand cream.

But in the end,
these were only my guesses.

I am not the sender.
I am only the deliverer.
You are the receiver.

I don’t need to know the answer,
just like you don’t want to know
how I am doing.

I crossed from reality into the dream
to return and see you.
This is
my one-sided way
of communicating with you.