Kristina removed the letter from her apron pocket and gingerly unfolded it. She had read its contents often enough that the paper was already starting to fray at the edges. If she closed her eyes, she could see the words in front of her. But, they were still like so many snowflakes melting on contact.
She shook her head as if to dislodge whatever was affecting her usually sharp perceptions. Her education to this point had been less than formal, but it had enabled her to sniff out the liminal spaces between what is said and what is meant. She had learned these lessons while eking out a living in this guesthouse, where the owner was happy to turn a blind eye to her age in exchange for untold hours of cheap labor. Till now, it was an exchange Kristina had been happy to make. Yet, she feared the heightened sense of what is not said that she learned within these walls had somewhat dulled her responses to plain words. Or, perhaps she was just too invested in the impact to her life the letter’s text could make possible to let herself comprehend its meaning. Too much was at stake, so she needed to find a more visceral way to connect with the significant sentiments on the page.
Tentatively, she placed a finger on the greeting. “Dear Kristina” meant this letter was for her, so she continued to trace words, like a sightless person reading braille.
“We are happy to welcome you to our freshman class,” it read. “Happy” and “Welcome.” These are words of greeting and good cheer, she thought to herself. So far, so good. “Freshman class?” She searched the internal dictionary she had painstakingly created by spending countless hours in the tiny library of her tiny town. After a few seconds of somewhat strained focus, the definition came to mind. “Freshman: a first-year student.” Or, she quietly acknowledged, a student at the beginning of her education.
Downstairs, she heard the kitchen crew cleaning up breakfast. She was due to change the bedding on the third floor and knew she shouldn’t be lingering. Yet, as the light through the window temporarily illuminated the darkened hallway, she felt the need to stay right where she was for just one more minute.
The snowflakes melted away with the morning sun. “Welcome,” she said out loud to no one. The beds could wait. She was expected elsewhere.
Lois Anne DeLong is a freelance writer living in Queens, New York, and is an active member of Woodside Writers, a literary forum that meets weekly. Her stories have appeared in Dear Booze and DarkWinter Literary Journal. In her free time, DeLong enjoys going to the theatre, singing show tunes in piano bars, and suffering along with her beloved New York Mets.