I almost missed it.

It was nearly hidden away, encapsulated within the masses of flyers offering me a low-cost mortgage and credit card companies urging me down the road to bankruptcy and pizza joints dousing me with savings on carbohydrate ridden foods and pottery barn tempting me with everything on every one of its pages and my credit card statements reaffirming the fact that I really can’t afford to eat AND drive my car.

It was nondescript, handwritten with a casual, block-letter font in blue pen that wasn’t permanent since it smeared from the rain.

There was no return address.

The envelope itself was of a typical sort – the long, skinny type with the security inside, making me wonder if the sender uses those envelopes to pay his own mounting credit card bills or if he just prefers the anonymity suggested by the type. The paper was of a typical printer stock – not too flimsy, not too nice.

Like I said, I almost missed it…but thankfully, I didn’t.

I had to read it three times before I began to understand the impact of what was before me, rain starting to splatter the ink into little mystic pools of blue swirls, sabotaging the words with a vicious nature. In the surprising coolness of my garage, with rain cascading down the gutter and the cats mewing inside with the knowledge that I was home, I was reading a love letter.

To me.

As in a bad romance movie where boy and girl eventually get together, something of the Meg Ryan-sort, per se, the postmark was smeared as well. As if the postman was in on the plot to warm my heart and make me wonder. Unintelligible.

There is no signature.

The words inside are simple, beautiful, flattering. Intriguing. Alluring. Captivating. Vague enough that it could be about a hundred different people but specific enough that I believe I was its intended recipient. That I AM the intended recipient.

Whoever you are, you’ve got my attention.