Every morning there’s a different envelope with his name written on the front in his dead father’s handwriting.
Every morning he blinks twice to see if the envelope is still there.
Every morning the shape blurs and resolves to the same pale rectangle.
It might not even be an envelope.
It’s the right shape but there’s no sign of an opening.
It’s the right heft but it floats on his hands.
No flap, so not a lick of trickster DNA.
It feels like there’s a hollow inside.
It feels like it wants to breathe.
He holds it up to the light, or the sun if he’s lucky, hoping for a clue, a shadow, a shade.
Once he thought he saw hints of a map or a ribcage and he involuntarily crushed the paper in his fist.
Now the son is more careful.
Now he cradles the thing in his fingertips.
Now he waits and watches for what seems like time enough to suffocate twice over.
Now he puts the thing in with the others in the worn wooden box his father kept his hollow points in.
There’s blue steel in the bottom of the box.
The box is almost full.
He closes the box with a drunken suture.
He closes the box like crushing a weeping bird in his fist.
He closes the box like his hand over a mouth in the dark.