December House

The moment after the mail truck turns the corner and disappears from sight, you leap toward the front door, abandoning your station at the window. For once you are content to ignore the harsh blast of December air which stings your face. 

Your breath comes in rapid puffs, legs burning with anticipation. But with measured steps you at least make an attempt to walk casually.

You wave at Mrs. Bay, peeking from the curtains of a neighboring window. She smiles in amusement at the sight of the chipper teenager nearly skipping down the icy driveway. She's seen the goofy expression on your face for the past few days now, always appearing after the mail truck departs.

You shift your gaze to your Oracle of Delphi, growing closer with each step. Goosebumps ripple up your arms as you touch the mailbox's cold surface.

Upon contact you are transported into a much warmer climate, where cheery students in bright summer colors head to class against the backdrop of swaying palm trees and the bluest sky you can imagine. Some glide by on bikes, lanyards swinging. You swear you can hear the ocean in the distance.

You open your eyes, lingering a moment. The windows of your small home glow a soft yellow in the darkening evening. As fluffy snow gently drifts and settles around it, something like nostalgia comes over you. The scene could be someone's quiet desktop wallpaper or the subject of a children's book illustration. You imprint the image in your mind as if seeing it for the last time, a lone figure facing the house in salute. 

Then a surge of daring propels your hand toward the mailbox. With one deft motion it swings open, revealing the pile of letters inside.

You thumb past coupons and forms, each bill discarded on the soggy ground bringing you closer to the bottom of the stack.

Your breath catches as your fingers find the edge of the envelope which contains your future. Without the name of the prestigious university stamped on the back, the thin, white envelope would seem undeserving of a second glance.

You pause neither for hopes nor prayers; you've already devoted four years to both. Nothing you do now can change the contents of this letter, anyway.

Jamming an index finger into the sealed flap of the envelope, it glides open with a satisfying riiiip. A trembling hand fumbles with the folded paper inside, ominously simple and white.

Frenetic energy builds in your limbs, your head grows light as the very page is at last in your hands, words dancing before your dizzy eyes- !

Wild eyes scan the paper once, twice, three times, unable to make out anything that's written. Your drowning brain struggles to process the words, flailing for a life raft of "Congratulations!".

Sinking deeper, you start from the beginning again, making sure the name at the top of the page is yours. Finally you stumble upon the very first line: "We regret to inform you…"

A hand strays toward the mailbox to keep you afloat, but you sink to your knees, succumbing at last to the depths.

The fierce sparks of hope in your chest fizz out into angry ash.

You picture what Mrs. Bay is seeing: a heap of dead weight in the snow, blank face staring dumbly at the unforgiving letter.

Studying the words deliberately now, your face drops at the realization that this is no mistake. The certainty of complete and utter rejection is a more painful hit than the initial surprise. You aren't even granted the shaky hope of being waitlisted.

In your periphery Mrs. Bay subtly draws the curtains shut. Your face burns despite the cold. She knows what you know now: there will be no shorts and sandals, no meals in the cozy dining hall, no late-night study sessions in the library so familiar in your dreams. Hot tears well in your eyes, and one escapes down your clenched jaw.

You're not crying for the years of work and meticulous planning, all worth nothing now; you're crying for the dorm decorations you've been stealthily collecting, which will most likely lie in your closet unused, some still in their packaging. You're crying because you can't escape to your room, where the university's pamphlets and brochures are spread over every surface, dotted with smiley-faces and encouraging notes (3 things to put in your essay that'll definitely get you accepted!). You're crying thinking about the way you'll have to break the news to your friends, and your mom- and pretend you hadn't accidentally discovered the "Congratulations!" card she'd already made for you, and tomorrow pretend you don't notice it in the recycling bin.

The lengthening shadows of your house against the pavement swallow you completely. By the time you've taken many deep breaths, the seat of your pants has been completely soaked through with melted snow. You swipe a sleeve across puffy eyes and ungracefully wobble into a standing position. Kicking a chunk of snow, you watch it spatter into smaller clumps as it collides against the mailbox.

Finally retreating to the bench on your porch, the silent houses and parked cars across the street stare back at you, their blackened windows mirroring your own empty eyes.

The vacancy of your own driveway suddenly becomes noticeable. You sigh, realizing your mom's car won't be back until late.

You wonder what she'll say when she reads the letter. Selfishly, you wish she doesn't act disappointed. It feels unfair for anyone to be upset except you. You bristle imagining all the hushed phone calls that will be made, each soft apology crushing you deeper into yourself. 

Holding the letter up to your face, you squint at the characters on the page in the diffused light of the porch window. The carefully-worded paragraphs are solid and final, walls of rigid text despite the faint regret which pervades them. Your left hand impulsively snatches a corner as if to tear the paper in two, but then you loosen your grip and lean back onto the bench.

The house behind you is warm and inviting. You huff, crossing your arms and pulling your jacket tighter. 

And as you stare absently at the road ahead, the moon begins to shine over the little December house you long to leave behind.