Four years ago, I received a strange letter in the mail. The envelope looked like it had taken a beating under the care of the U.S. Postal Service. The material was withered and the stamp in the upper right hand corner had been worn away by time. The letter was addressed quite plainly, though there was no return address. Most curious about this envelope was not its ragged form, nor the absence of the sender’s identification. What was most puzzling about this envelope was the date on the post-mark. Though the ink was nearly worn away, the characters clearly read “May 15, 2010.”

I sat alone at my dining room table for 20 minutes, contemplating whether or not to open the letter. I didn’t. Instead, I placed the envelope on my bed, threw on my sneakers and rushed out the door to see friends for the evening, promptly forgetting about what had been, for a brief 20 minutes, one of the more confounding and absorbing dilemmas of an otherwise worry-free week.

When I returned home later that night, I came across the letter, still sitting exactly where I had left it. I lay down and held the envelope before me. I laughed to myself and wondered whether or not I had simply misread the post-mark earlier. I gazed on the faded ink. Nope. There it was, as clear as day – “May 15, 2010.”

Still confused and not quite certain as to what it meant, I lay in my bed for a long time, trying to determine what I should do with this mystery letter. Eventually, I came to what I believed was a fitting conclusion. Whatever lay inside this envelope was special. Its contents were intended to hold some value – that much was clear. Yet, I could not open it. Though the envelope filled me with a sense of intrigue and wonder, something stopped me, and I set for myself a different course of action. I would not open this letter until the date on the post mark. I would not open this letter until May 15, 2010.

I hid the envelope in some safe place, and forgot about it. High school was over, and the break before college would prove to be the best of my life. I had no cares, no worries and was as excited as any 18-year-old could be for the long-awaited exodus out of familial bondage and into the sweet embrace of college freedom. The world was my oyster; what did I care of worn-out envelopes with post-marks from some future date?

Last week, after four life-changing years, I found the envelope. I had just returned home from picking up my cap and gown for graduation, and in my discomfort and consternation, I threw these commencement necessities into my closet with considerable force. They struck a plastic box in the corner of the closet and knocked the lid loose. Looking for something to distract myself with, I decided to peruse its contents. After flipping through several papers which I had seen fit to save over the course of my college experience, I stumbled across the phantom envelope, now only slightly more battered than it had been four years earlier.

As I felt the paper in my hands anssd re-read the post-mark, I was struck by two things. First, the handwriting on the envelope looked instantly familiar. It was mine. Four years ago, I would not have recognized it at all, but the script was in my own hand. Of this I was certain. Secondly, the date on the post-mark had immediate resonance. May 15, 2010. That is the day that I will don the cap and gown resting on my closet floor and march solemnly into McGuirk Stadium with all of my friends and classmates beside me. I recalled the decision I had come to four years earlier, and an all-but-impossible realization occurred to me. Had I overcome the laws of physics, nature and all that I know and have learned to be true and mailed my younger self a letter on the day of my college graduation? What magic was this?

Overwhelmed by the magnitude of such impossibility, I resolved to open the envelope. What was so important that my future self had felt so compelled to reach out and contact me? Here were, perhaps, all the pieces of advice which might have lightened my college load. Perhaps this was the recipe for success, sent by a knowing future self to a confused younger kid. I tore the envelope apart and removed its contents. There was one page of plain white paper. Again in my handwriting, the sheet was largely blank, save for the date in the corner and a few words written across the center.

“Learn what you must. Love who you can.”

Below were my initials. I sat for a moment and thought. Then I smiled and filled out an envelope to match the original. I carefully folded the letter, placed it inside the envelope. I’ll drop it into the mail as I depart for the football stadium on May 15. Maybe it will reach a younger me. Maybe it won’t. I have not learned any magic in college, so who knows what will happen? It doesn’t matter. The fact is that after four years of college, my future self couldn’t tell me anything I haven’t learned on my own. I like that.

Charlie Felder was a Collegian columnist. He can be reached at [email protected].