Path

It’s easier to follow footsteps than pave a way — isn’t it?

Tightening my grip on the large beige envelope, I knew full well what it contained. Inhale. I felt my hand twitch slightly. Our rusted mailbox was home to a similar package once, except it was addressed to my elder brother. Exhale. I laid it on the ground.

I craned my neck, and looked blankly upward. Only about a millimeter thick, a crack creeped along the ivory-hued ceiling. I spent hours painting that; and the tiny dent made the entire area look grey, wrong.

The carpet my parents liked made my feet itch. Years back, a very shady carpet dealer told me that walking on carpets would make them better. Pacing back and forth, I felt like I was being productive, in a way. Not really. Nevertheless I dragged my feet across the width of the “Genuine Iranian Carpet” and hoped for the best.

Glancing at the clock I realised my parents would be returning soon; Glancing at the envelope I realised that I needed a miracle — or a traffic jam.

They wouldn’t be disappointed, or anything. Quite the contrary. They’d be elated, overjoyed, the way they were two years ago. Why was I dreading this so much, then? Rueing the pride and congratulation, even the champagne.

For a second, probably more, I held my eyes shut. I kneeled down and picked the envelope up. The paper smelt more or less like regular paper, but it felt strangely heavy in my hands. The sould of paper ripping was crisp, and louder than it would have been if the house hadn’t been so empty.

Everything went blurry and warm as I skimmed through the letter. Tears came, and I couldn’t tell if they were happy tears, as they should’ve been.

There was a click and a creak, and I turned to see my parents at the doorway.

“I got in,” I said, breaking down. “I got in to my brother’s university.”