I’m trying to get to sleep at a reasonable time but once again my neighbor’s blaring his music.

Close my eyes
Think about the old times
What’s it all about?
The feeling when it all works out*

Only problem is, it’s hard to feel like everything’s working out when you’ve planned on moving out for years and are still waiting on a job offer.
Ithaca, New York: named after a charming Greek island in the Ionian Sea, once home to Odysseus and now a traveler’s paradise, yet this town couldn’t be further from its namesake. The most luxurious thing about here is the fact that it’s the permanent residence of Cornell University. If you visit Ithaca’s tourist website, you’ll even see an ad that says, “Due to this ridiculously stupid winter, Ithaca invites you to visit the Florida Keys this week. Please come back when things thaw out. Really, it’s for the birds here now.” It’s no wonder half the people here think they suffer from seasonal affective disorder.

---

I start work at six in the morning, so I always get home around 2:30 in the afternoon. First thing I do is check the mail. It’s usually nothing of much importance. I never subscribe to magazines anymore since they’re all online now anyway, so I might only find a bill or reminder to make a dentist appointment. Exciting. This time I get a birthday card from my mom. My twenty-second birthday was last week, but every year she forgets until the last minute. She also doesn’t seem to realize no one ever calls me Tommy anymore; it’s just Tom. Still, her cards are always the sweetest, and I don’t think I really deserve it. She thinks I’m doing well and loving life, but I don’t have the heart to tell her that’s not exactly the case.
As I set down the card, I go onto the next piece of mail. The apartment number, street, and everything, written out by hand in black ink, are mine, but there’s no return address. I don’t even recognize the handwriting, but that only makes me more interested in the contents of the envelope. I tear it open and pull out a letter. It’s on that ornate flowery stationery you always see at office supply stores but no one ever buys except when December rolls around and it’s time for every grandparent to send out a Christmas letter to the relatives.

Dear recipient,

I hope that you are having a lovely day and that this letter finds you well. What do I have to say that could brighten your day, make you feel empowered, or make you reflect on the wonders of your life? Perhaps I can’t say anything. If I could, maybe I would have done that for myself.

Nonetheless, please know that you deserve everything you are hoping to find in life.

I’m looking out the deck door as I write, and there’s a family of birds making a nest in the watermelon birdhouse. It is so old and beginning to rust out, but they just stuffed the hole with some grass and stuff and keep on building. We usually have about three families a year who use it. They’re fun to watch. Once I saw one fly for the first time. It was neat.

I don’t remember much anymore, but the one piece of advice that has stuck with me throughout the years is this: Don’t get too close to people; you’ll catch their dreams.

Sincerely,

A stranger

I let the silence unfold around me for a moment. The marmalade sunshine is beaming in through my kitchen window, making the swirls of dust light up. I’ve always thought this is the sort of lighting made for memories; the type faded photographs are formed of. This is honestly the kindest thing someone has done for me in a long time. I’ve never decided whether or not I believe in fate, but an event like this could make anyone rethink his or her convictions. I wasn’t certain what the last sentence of the letter really meant, but it seemed important. I’d ruminate on it. I need to find the sender, though.

---

The following day I stop by the post office. It’s right across the street from my own office, but I rarely have reason to visit. I figured someone there might be able to tell me which mail carrier delivers to me, and that person could help me out.
“Hi, what can I help you with?” The woman working behind the counter asks.
“I was wondering if you could tell me the name of the mail carrier who delivers to the Cayuga Place Apartments.”
“Are you here to file a complaint?”
“Oh, no, I just have an inquiry for my mail carrier.” I’m not even sure if post office personnel are allowed to disclose much information about the postmen, so I probably sound pretty dumb.
“Where’d you say you live?”
“Cayuga Place Apartments. 131 East Green Street.”
“Well, it looks like there’s currently no designated postman for your street, so it’s been placed at the end of others’ routes temporarily.”
“Okay, well, thank you for your help.”
What can I do if I don’t even know who delivered the letter?

---

Three weeks later and I pop into the grocery store to grab a few things for dinner. Lately I’d been going out with friends or ordering takeout, but I wanted to make something special since I finally heard back from a potential employer in Florida about a job working as a software engineer, and it turns out I got it. Hasta la vista, graphic design. I love the work, but it is just way too difficult to be extremely successful at it, and especially in a place like this.
At checkout, I’m standing in line behind an old woman who’s in the midst of filling out a crossword. Her handwriting looked eerily familiar. I don’t think anything of it until I start heading for the doors.
“Excuse me. Excuse me!” I exclaim as I catch up to her.
“Sorry, this is a bit of a weird question, but is this your handwriting?”
I hold up the letter to her. I had kept it folded up in my coat pocket. The worst she could do is say it’s not, I’d be embarrassed, and we’d go off our separate ways. She obviously recognizes the shaky letters evidencing an elderly writer for her face goes blank and then a puzzled look come upon it.
“Was it you I sent this to?”
“Yeah, I got it in the mail the other week. The whole time I’ve been wondering who sent it. I just wanted to say thank you. Is there anything that I can help you with? My name’s Tom, by the way.”
“Oh, no, that won’t be necessary! My husband’s health is failing him and he’s currently in the hospital, so it’s just been a bit lonely around the house. I thought it would be nice to write a letter to someone. Whenever my husband was away on business, I wrote to him, and I missed that. I’m Irma. It’s wonderful to meet you.”
Her face is crinkled but her words pour out of her mouth like honey. They’re sincere.
“You too! I don’t know if you remember, but in your letter to me you mentioned you have an old birdhouse. I think I have one at my place that I’ve never put up, and it seems you it’d be of much better use at your home. I’d be happy to bring it over and set it up for you.”
“Are you sure? You really don’t have to. But it would be lovely to see the birds have a new place to make their home. I don’t have much in the way of dinner, though. I would hate to keep you from anything you have planned.”
“Of course, it would be no trouble at all. In fact, I’d be happy to make a dinner for the both of us.”
Her eyes light up as if she were a child seeing snow for the first time, and all I can think is that I’ve done something right for once.

---

The following weeks pass by more quickly than I thought possible. I’m always hearing that quote by C.S. Lewis: “Isn’t it funny how day by day nothing changes, but when you look back everything is different?” Usually I just pass that stuff off as something a “depressed” thirteen year old would say, but it actually seemed to make a whole lot of sense for once. I spent more and more time with Irma and now thought of her as a great friend. We often have each other over for dinner, tour the museums downtown, and go to the theater.  Every other Saturday we’d even peruse the local farmers’ market. Each day didn’t seem to differ that much from the next, but I took a step back and realized something.
I had been thinking about that piece of advice Irma gave to me ever since I first read it, and I was now pretty certain I knew what it meant. The cause of my unhappiness had never really been this town; it was always myself. I couldn’t keep relying on other people’s ideas of success to bring me satisfaction. I’d decline the job offer.

---

It’s a Sunday night, freezing cold, with thirty miles per hour northwest winds. But I had wanted to head up to Lake Ontario for a day since it was always one of my favorite spots to visit as a kid and I hadn’t been there in a while. I remember when I was little I’d look out at the boats on the water and wish I could just drift off on one of them. But, as I stood beneath the velvet sky, the midnight waves rolled in, and I felt more at home than I’d ever been.

*Lyrics from "It All Feels Right" by Washed Out