Scrapings from a Mildewed Tooth

I found something bad today, while leafing through an old book. It was an envelope, sealed and ready for postage. It was addressed to someone in Cambuslang. There was a card inside, filled out as follows:

Dear Grandpa,

Thank you very much for the birthday money. I've put it towards this term's tuition. This year, I--

--here, there were several lines of personal trivia. Since they were quite boring, even as such things go, I'm substituting this equally uninteresting excuse for their omission--

--so your generosity couldn't have been more timely, or more appreciated!

Sincerely,

--Socar Myles

The card had gone yellow round the edges. The ink had begun to fade. And, worst of all, the addressee had died.

Mother kept reminding me to post that card. She reminded me so many times I still remember her reminders, and it's been nearly seven years. "Your grandfather hates bad manners," she said. "Don't be late saying thanks. And put in some news, while you're at it. Let him know you're making something of yourself." She even sent me an envelope with his address on, so I couldn't possibly forget. I must've bunged the card in the book so I'd be sure to take it with me when I went out. Oh, man--what if I forgot what it was, and used it as a bookmark? I'm drain-slime. Maggot-spit. Scrapings from a mildewed tooth.

I could've sworn I'd mailed that card. Ha--could've, nothing! I did swear to it. Mother kept going on and on: "Are you sure you got it sent? I know what you're like. Remember in high school, with the French homework in your locker*? Hey! Did you take it to the post office, or drop it in the box? Did you use the envelope I sent?" Anyway, she kept on and on, and I kept swearing it was done.

You know, without denying my essential sliminess, I must point out that I remember dispatching that note. I bought the stamps, licked the envelope, and, no more than a week or two later, into the mailbox it went. Or something went. A library fine, maybe, or a rent cheque: something small and light, which, in my absent-mindedness, I might have taken for the card.

Or maybe I imagined myself going to the post office (imprinting it on my brain so's I wouldn't forget), and thought I'd really done it. If I imagined the same thing a lot of times, I could have begun to believe I was remembering it, instead.

Anyhow, I've got to be more with it, from now on. That'll be my resolution for 2007: spend less time in a state of bamboozlement. No more working on Saturday because I think it's Friday. No more treating collections agencies as reminder services: I'll pay my bills as they arrive. Also, food must be eaten at least three times per day.

I am a disgrace.

* My high school French teacher liked homework to be placed in a special box at the beginning of each class. I forgot about that box, so my homework all ended up in my locker. By the time the situation was called to my attention, I'd forgotten about the locker full of homework. I ended up doing it all again. Mother was puzzled, having seen me doing it the first time. She demanded I mount a search, which ended in my feeling a right fool. This situation illustrates why no-one trusts me to do anything properly.