In early summer, my youngest daughter, Audrey, and I sat down one afternoon and jotted down ideas for our first comic book story together. The subject was Boo, the World’s Cutest Dog, though if you have a dog you probably don’t say the second part in front of him/her. We don’t have a dog even though Audrey has long wanted one almost as bad as her older sister used to want a baby brother or sister. And that became the seed to our storyline, which was then beautifully drawn to life by artist Tony Fleecs.
A few months later, we have the finished comic book in hand. Audrey is even on the cover! There are three stories – by three different writer/artist teams – featured in Boo Issue #1 and it’s a great read for kids and Boo fans of all ages. You can find it in fine comic shops or buy it digitally HERE.
I grew up reading Richie Rich and Archie and later moved on to MAD. I have some sweet summertime memories involving stacks of comics and sun-warmed chocolate chip cookies. Sigh. Both of my girls have also grown up reading comic books since their dad works in comics, which is how this opportunity came about for Audrey and me. I’ve long harbored desires to write children’s stories, so I can safely say I had a dream come true this summer.
And Audrey, well, she has her face on the cover of a comic book. How cool is that? She shared a couple copies with close friends but has otherwise been playing it cool. We already have another story idea in the works, so fingers crossed.
While we’re talking books, Kary May Hickey of God Walks Into This Bar has her first book available on Amazon (I believe it’s even free today only). It’s a guidebook to recovery through the help of a bustling online community. She is a fantastically smart and funny writer, so I can’t wait to check it out.
Welcome to anyone reading after a post I wrote about accidentally drowning a spider got picked for Wordpress Discover. What a surprise that was, but no more surprising than when I accidentally on purpose drowned another spider this week though saved another just minutes before and am now wondering if it was somehow the same spider. There was also that spider I saved in the shower last week, but he was paler and clearly not related. I should probably craft a tiny life preserver with eight arm holes and keep it on me at all times, even in the shower.
The latest spider rescue and subsequent drowning started 12 years ago at a small inn in the Adirondacks which alluded to a view of the lake in its name though you had to crane your neck just so to imagine it. Cars rumbled by on a busy road separating the cottage from the lake and on the interstate just behind a thin layer of woods. It was not as peaceful as we’d imagined but the charming couple that had only recently bought and fixed up the place left baked goods in the room and lured us out each night with a campfire and s’mores. It was just me and my husband and our one daughter then. I took this picture of them at the far away lake.
This year we went back and the first thing we noticed was the For Sale sign out front. A different woman checked us into the same cottage, which felt smaller than we’d remembered and the bathroom smelled like body odor or ass depending on which one of us you asked, so we just kept the door closed. After settling in and wondering why the hell we’d come back, we headed down to the lake and attempted to recreate the beloved photo.
We can’t help it that the pier and ‘no trespassing’ sign were long gone. My husband could have stooped down but it would have seemed forced. We let our other kid stand in and no one is in a diaper or cowboy hat because we suck at re-creating old photographs from memory.
The spiders, though, well I’m getting to that. The cottage stay came with unlimited use of a kayak and canoe, which by the looks of both hadn’t been used in some time. We did our best to clean them both out of wolf spiders, but we missed one. I think it hid behind my youngest daughter’s seat cushion because I first noticed it climbing up the back of her rain jacket. It paused a bit on the top of her head like one would on the top of a mountain to take in the view and then kept going until it disappeared from view and onto what I assumed was her face.
You can’t just stand up in a tandem kayak. You can, as calmly as possible, urge your daughter, who is sometimes afraid of gnats, to “just bat it off with your hand”. You will still only be able to see the back of her head, which is further obscured by a hood, so you may feel like you’re instructing someone you can’t see where to wipe away a pesky glob of ketchup if ketchup were hairy and horrifying. You will be able to see that her hands are maddeningly still by her side and you will hear her terrified whimpers, so naturally you will shout the same instructions only louder. JUST BAT IT OFF. YOU HAVE TO BAT IT OFF.
The good news is this spider came round to her shoulder to see what all the yelling was about and I used the paddle to fling him into the water. I didn’t feel great about it, but I had no choice. The kayak mood was killed after that. We paddled back to shore and my older daughter said she noticed right away that something was wrong by her sister’s posture and face and how her hair covered her face. She hadn’t heard the yelling, oddly. After I explained about the spider, my younger daughter asked “There was a spider on me?” She had no idea what I was freaking out about, though assumed a bug or horrible monster.Those were her words, by the way. Freaking out. I need to work on my calm voice.
Can wolf spiders swim? I think they might be able to because I rescued one with the same paddle moments before we launched the kayak and it kind of seemed like it was already heading to shore. My husband claims he accidentally flung that one into the lake and I got pissy with him, though now wonder if I didn’t somehow rescue it right back into the kayak. Anyway, I drowned the other (or possibly same) spider. Nature can be surprisingly quick with the whole balance thing.
We stayed a few nights at the cottage and settled into the sound of trucks rumbling by and even the body odor/ass smell in the bathroom. No one coaxed us out for campfires and s’mores so my husband built a roaring one and we bought supplies at a store down the road. We only ever saw one of the owners. The other, it seemed, was no longer in the picture. I thought for longer than seemed sane about buying the inn and running it ourselves, but those days of infinite possibility and hope are over. I’m fine watching Fawlty Towers once a year (usually around Thanksgiving) and being reminded why running an inn is a terrible idea.
You can’t always go back. You can’t save a spider without drowning another one. You can’t fix things that are broken because sometimes they’re meant to be that way. It’s sad if you look at something broken in the usual way, but over time the picture might change into something different, surprising even.
Deal Island is a three mile finger of land and tide about 15 miles off the beaten path in eastern shore Maryland. It’s where my great-grandfather, who we called Pop-Pop, lived until the (and his) mid 80s, which is also the last time I’d visited. Even though he’s long gone and the first word that always comes to mind when I think of Deal Island is mosquitoes, I had to get back. It should have been a tough sell to my girls, but they’re always up for adventure or maybe the challenge of seeing ordinary stuff that way.
We picked a sunny day with low humidity for our trip. If we’d gone the day before, I’m convinced westerly winds would have carried in biting flies like those from a particularly vivid childhood memory. Sure, I remember that time my great-grandfather’s cat scratched a perfect circle of blood around my wrist or the way the massive vinyl swing on his front porch creaked and groaned though never in a way that made me feel uneasy. But I’ll never ever forget the 2 mile walk that felt like 200. My brother and I were nearly eaten alive by greenheads and mosquitoes as we took a fun family hike along the bay. Our parents tossed back helpful tips like “walk fasterso they won’t bite you” and other things I’ve surely never said to my own children, who are now more delicious than I. Deal Island was originally called Devil’s Island, though I’m not sure there’s truth to the rumors it was once a hotbed of pirate activity. If so, those were some tough pirates.
Driving in that clear day with its delightfully low dew point, the first thing we noticed was a perfect stranger waving to us. In fact, he didn’t even look up so wouldn’t have known we were strangers, though I don’t guess it would have mattered. I’d remembered it as a kind of Mayberry on the water, and not much had changed.
The old bank building was still there. My great-grandfather worked there until the stock market collapse of 1929. When there was a run on the bank, a customer who was also a neighbor waved a gun at him. It was panic, nothing personal then or when the bank closed like many small town banks had to. It sat empty for years and then someone converted the inside to a machine shop. It sits empty again and for $24,900, anyone can buy it.
Probably the most anticlimactic stop was in front of my great-grandfather’s old house. It’s been so lovingly renovated that I couldn’t recognize enough to tap into nostalgia. Instead we kept walking down the street, past an old gothic revival farmhouse that could only be suitable to vampires. Only on the walk back did we notice an identical gothic revival farmhouse right next door. I did not take pictures of either and deeply regret this, but you probably wouldn’t have either.
Our next stop was the final resting place of both great-grandparents and also Joshua Thomas, Parson of the Islands. He predicted the British fleet’s defeat in Baltimore that inspired Francis Scott Key and our national anthem. Also, he was born in a place called Potato Neck and his dad died from a dog bite and his stepfather was a drunken lout who forever turned young Joshua off alcohol. I now remember why book reports were such a challenge. It’s tough telling which facts are weeds because they all seem important.
I can tell you that cemetery was the biggest challenge of the day. My dad had provided a quaint hand drawn map to find the family plot but failed to warn us half the people buried on that island share the same last name.
Three passes after I’d first given up, I found the plot and yelled so loud I probably woke Joshua Thomas of Potato Neck. We piled back in the car and drove until the road dead ended by crab shedding facilities at Wenona harbor. On the way back, I snapped this picture of a crumbling beauty an 1877 atlas designated the “Colored Church and School”.
I almost drove past another (mystery) beauty, but if you only get to a place once in 30 years, you find yourself doing asinine road maneuvers so you can go back and take pictures while your kid swats at bugs only kids can feel because adults are old and taste terrible
The next to last stop was at the public beach, where someone else had already written Pop-Pop in the sand and we collected a generous handful of tumbled sea glass. The funny thing about that is I’d had in mind to treat myself to something at the 5 year sober mark, but nothing seemed right and then I found it.
The final stop of the day was a bait and sundry shop where I purchased candy bars for the drive back. I picked a Whatchamacallit, which I also hadn’t experienced in about 30 years and my kids thought I’d forgotten the name and was just calling it that. Some days you look back and find yourself feeling lost and disappointed. This wasn’t one of those days.
Summer tumbled in a little bit like how I literally tumbled out of bed this morning. Our bed had an extra guest (no more ghost hunting shows before bedtime) along with her patented sideways-sleeping method, and in my effort to not disturb anyone, I woke everyone with a clamor and made the cat flee in a panic of terror, which was easily the best part. On my way down to the floor, I had enough time to wonder how I might explain this in an ER room. No, I wasn’t drinking, I’d say. I haven’t had a drink in over five years, though I’m still hitting the cupcakes pretty hard.
Write about what you know, they say. Recently I had two pieces featured elsewhere. The first is about my love-hate relationship with sugar in sobriety on Ruby Pipes. Ruby is a very talented writer and I hope to see more from her in the year ahead.
Side note: I wrote it back in January, and the “very bad day” I referred to was this one.
I also celebrated 5 years sober this week and wrote about it for AfterPartyMagazine. I’m not saying the last 1,825 days has been a cake walk – unless that means there was cake every day because clearly there was – but time flew by. I am reporting from the other side to anyone new to sobriety and saying life just keeps getting better or feeling better (who am I to question it?) the longer I’m sober. I know this won’t keep happening to the same degree, but life is good and I’m grateful. I’m going to disable comments here and hope you’ll go read. Thank you so very much for being here.
We get to the monument almost an hour before our ticketed time, figuring we’ll see if they can take us early or we can walk over to the WWII memorial. Hours earlier, the city was a ghost town. The sky was still gray and cool then, the streets and sidewalks near empty. Now the sun is out and kites litter the sky, with swarms of people on the ground below. Groups of young people take selfies, laughing at the impossible angle needed to include everyone (wouldn’t it be easier to ask a stranger “would you mind taking our picture?”), a very young girl steers a bicycle with training wheels through a thick crowd while her parents tag lackadaisically behind. The ding of her bell and, further ahead, the ding of two adults on bicycles, warning “here we come, out of the way tourists.”
Flags at half mast for Scalia, whose funeral is today – possibly happening at this very moment – though not affecting our trip in any way, thankfully. When my husband points out the very small ‘out of order’ sign near the entrance to the monument, I think it’s a mistake. Someone left it up or it’s not the correct entrance. A smiling government employee wearing, oddly, a hat with ear flaps in 60 degree weather, is explaining to a small crowd for probably the 150th time that the tickets they ordered online months ago are no good. The elevator is broken and the part won’t be in until Wednesday at the earliest. How long are you folks in town? He could recommend a million things more interesting than the view from the top of the monument and I wonder how that could possibly be.
I feel like we’ve arrived at Magic Kingdom to find that our favorite ride that we’ve never ridden before is closed. My husband says to our girls that he’s lived on the east coast for 21 years and still hasn’t been up in the monument and I say I’ve lived here 42 years and haven’t either, though this feels more like an admission of guilt than any consolation. We ask the girls if they’d rather go see Jefferson or Lincoln and of course they both pick a different one, but one is a birthday girl and that seems the fairest way to settle it.
The Jefferson Memorial is my favorite because you have to walk along the tidal basin to get there. We pass some kind of diving bird, who disappears so long we’re sure he’s drowned but then pops up again somewhere completely unexpected, far away from the trail of bubbles he left behind. We spot a thin guy in spectacles and a red and white striped shirt, holding a similarly striped knit cap with red pom-pom. I take a picture of him from behind and again from a far distance as he sits on the monument steps, but before he puts his beanie on. I wonder if it’s a game he plays, going to crowded public places and then searching social media later for the tags #whereswaldo and #foundhim.
Later we rest our aching bones in a brief cab ride to the White House and see the Monument taunting from the skyline and I think the windows look too small. We would all have been jockeying for a picture, fixated on the view through our phones instead of thinking “I’m inside a giant mother-fucking pencil right now.”
The next day we will see a baby panda napping in a tree, and we will see familiar animals we’ve never seen before, and that will seem like it should be the highlight of our trip. But instead the birthday daughter will say the walk along the tidal basin was her favorite part. The breeze and the way the sun was falling and the peace and calm at the memorial, in spite of all the people and Waldo and the wedding party that showed up to have their pictures taken. Who gets married in mid-February on the east coast expecting a beautiful spring day? May the couple know happiness but also a touch of disappointment and sadness so they appreciate it all that much more.
I shake the principal’s hand but clam up and don’t introduce myself, starstruck I guess, and then file in behind others to the auditorium and a seat comfortably in the back. A couple comes in at the very end and takes the two seats in front of me. He is waiting for her to sit down and she is waiting for him to read her mind and take the water bottle and papers from her hand so she can remove her jacket. My jacket is still on, buttoned up and everything. The first speaker has a gravelly, high pitched voice and the second speaker is smooth baritone, but peppered with uhs and ums. The third speaker is just right, but implies our children should be taking Advanced Placement Calculus and Physics. He must be talking to the raven-haired mom two rows ahead, who nods vigorously. I drift off and count gray heads in the crowd. Two gray ladies, just like me, one stylishly cut with cute glasses and the other with long straight hair and ruddy cheeks of a young girl that somehow makes me think ‘older woman’. I spot a man I remember from AA meetings a million years ago. His hair isn’t really gray and he wouldn’t remember me. I imagine plucking these three from their seats so we could meet afterwards and I would say what was all that nonsense about AP Calculus, hm?
This is something I wrote in the spirit of Homework for Life, which I mentioned late last year. It has failed to freeze time like it does in movies so that I can run around and tweak the noses of people I do not care for, but I am enjoying the practice. Every morning when I journal, I take something from the day before and turn it into a mini story or byte. We literally have stories all over the place and it helps me to stay present by looking for the details there. Like, in the above sequence, I not only remember the woman who couldn’t sit down because she was holding a water bottle and wearing a jacket, but I also remember how sheepish her husband looked when he finally did read her mind. I remember he was wearing a belt holster for his phone like it was 1999. He had a fuzzy haircut like a baby chick. I remember another woman three rows up who was chewing gum so distractingly I decided maybe I shouldn’t chew gum at all.
Right now my homework for life tends to be snarky, and this worries me a little. Snarkiness is fear-based, and maybe I should have chosen Fear as my word-of-the-year because I am able to poke at it with a stick through exercises like this. Time and Fear wait for no man, and so they are hard to slow down to get a really good look. I like being able to go back and get a closer look in these tiny, frozen snapshots.
Around the time I discovered horror movies, I used to look up to check for axes dangling from trees. It was only something I did in the woods, and not anything I recall seeing in a horror movie, so I’m not sure where it came from. I also still checked nightly for monsters under the bed. I’d kneel down on the side of the bed farthest from the door and bravely pull up the dust ruffle. I’m not sure now if I meant to flush the monster out – you know, give him an escape route – or if it just hadn’t occurred that I would have no way out.
This seems as good a time as any to confess I used to believe a race of tiny vampires called the Dynamites lived under my bed. They all looked like Count from Sesame Street, although probably only the leader wore a monocle. Aside from the time I watched them parade up the side of my bedroom wall and disappear through a crack in the closet (chickenpox fever), I never actually saw them. When I checked under the bed in later years, I was expecting only one monster and much larger and more menacing. If I’d seen the Dynamites, I might have scooped them up like kittens while they counted and nibbled at my neck.
There are literally hundreds of scientific-sounding names assigned to all the things we’re afraid of. Cometophobia is the fear of comets. If, for whatever reason, you’re afraid of chopsticks, I’m afraid you have consecotalephobia and probably a difficult road ahead. According to one definition, sanguivoriphobia is the “irrational fear of vampires” which sounds like something a vampire would write. Arithmophobia covers the fear of counting. Teratophobia is a fear of monsters or having a deformed child, both of which I can understand, though lumping them together feels a little lazy. No one should mind if I slip in arboraxephobia.
The woods I checked most often for swinging axes was an undeveloped bluff at the end of our development. Everyone ignored the No Trespassing sign on the metal gate where the gravel road started, although I usually had the place to myself. This quarter-mile strip was prime waterfront real estate and would later become an early series of McMansions on dime-sized plots. But oh, that view. It’s no wonder someone made their summer home long ago on that desolate, lovely stretch.
The cottage had been a modest wooden clapboard with no porch and only a few rooms. It was long abandoned by the time my parents and I pulled open the rotted screen door and eased inside one Sunday afternoon. I remember pots and pans still in the cabinets and dishes thick with dust scattered across a kitchen table. Surprise Indian attack seemed the only logical explanation for anyone leaving dishes behind. I never went back inside.
Some years later, two known troublemakers skulked up the road from that direction just before the first black plumes of smoke began to rise. A dozen firetrucks couldn’t save the cottage. It went up like seasoned timber. A nearby barn with rusted out farm equipment were the only things left for us to climb over and keep us up to date in tetanus shots. And then we noticed the basement.
The cottage had burnt to the ground, leaving a smoldering hole with pitted concrete steps like teeth that grew mossy and slick with rotted leaves. We had lost a lonely old friend and gained a nightmare.
Sometimes I went to the top of the stairs by myself but usually with a friend, and never down into the belly of the basement. If I got down to about step eight, I could lean over far enough to see into part of the basement room to the left, but it was too black. The smell got me. Charred wood and burnt plastic, with an overlying bouquet of ammonia and mildew and maybe boiled blood. It was death, somehow, and I kept coming back to peer in without actually getting close enough to see anything
On the bus one day, a friend and I told a cute boy about the No Trespassing gate and the stairs and the very next day he and a friend tore up the hill from an angle we weren’t expecting like a couple of pirates. We thought for sure they would brave their way all the way down the stairs and tell us what they saw. In the end, they hovered on step four, maybe five, and then one remembered an orthodontist appointment, the other, homework.
One time I made it all the way to the bottom step with no one else around. The basement was still black but I made out some kind of shelf along the far wall. I never thought to bring a flashlight with me. The smell was worse at the bottom. The sounds weren’t right either. Maybe that steady click was dripping water. Maybe it sounded more like scratching.
One of my regrets in life – and I have a few by now – is that I never went all the way in. Around the time I started high school, the stairs and basement were filled and a stately home with cathedral ceilings and gleaming wooden stairs planted on top. While that house was under construction, I snuck in during a rain storm and saw someone had written HELP ME in what looked like blood on a second floor window. That house smelled like sawdust and drywall and nothing at all.
A wealthy family moved in and I filled in for their nanny a few times before graduating and moving away. The nanny kept a log for the family and used it to rat me out. Kristen did not clean up Robbie’s trains and the playroom is a MESS. In the second floor hall closet, the family hoarded massive stockpiles of hotel shampoos from Disney properties. I had no idea I would one day do the same, so it all felt very sinister.
Eventually I stopped checking trees for swinging axes. My old brain heard a creak from above and started assuming old branch in the wind. It occurs to me now that an axe looks similar to the kind of tomahawk an Indian might have used to catch a family by surprise one night during supper. The family would have jumped up quickly, shoving chairs to the side and heading to the only place they could think of to hide. The basement.
In the spirit of free-write Fridays (aka baby, you don’t need to wash your hair today because you already smell real nice), I’m sharing a post I wrote for Chris at KLĒN + SŌBR.
Chris is in his 18th year of abstinent recovery from alcohol and other drugs and is the founder of the KLĒN + SŌBR Project, including the Since Right Now Pod, which is breathing new life into my daily commute.
At first I was going to write about reconnecting with spirituality in recovery, but that story’s barely started. Besides, it was fun to go back to the time before I discovered high school parties and my new god, beer.
To read the story, say abracadabra and click the above image to find yourself magically transported to a much spiffier site.
Or here’s the link if you too are distrustful of magics: http://www.sincerightnow.com/insights/2015/2/9/the-class-ring
The fine print:
All the names in my story were changed, mainly to protect the innocent, but also because who would believe the ladykiller I called Glenn was really named Dirk?
Truth > Fiction.
Here’s the poem Class Ring, which I heard in the mid 80s. In the early 90s, it was co-opted and changed to deliver an anti-drunk driving message, which the original author seems cool with. As with middle school poems and many things I read on the internet, this warms the cockles of my heart.
Never buy a house with drop ceilings. Drop ceilings hide a multitude of sins, the effeminate, affable house painter warned, shaking his head like you would at a child old enough to know better. He gave us a quote to remove the ceiling tiles and framework and patch and paint, and then he gave us an affordable one to leave it all up and just paint the fake wood paneling below.
Were we high when we bought that house? I remember we’d sold our old house in a day and took the train back and forth on weekends from northern Virginia to north Jersey. It was a seller’s market there too. When we first visited the drop ceiling house, the owners brewed hazelnut coffee and set out fresh pastry. It had just stopped raining and everything was green and bright outside. They had a smiling golden retriever in the backyard. We fell in love with the dining room, where I once took a picture of our favorite cat sitting at the table in a chair, the Game of Life spread before him. He looks like he’s waiting his turn. He doesn’t necessarily look like he’s winning, but it’s so hard to tell when you’re still in the game.
It was a great dining room. The walls were painted brick the softest shade of sage. I believe when we opened the can later to do touch-up, its odd aroma prompted us to rename this shade ass paint. I guess I do kind of miss that house, just not the drop ceilings or the unexpected pond in the basement or the tiny downstairs bathroom some moron had tacked on. Later, other morons would find it very aggravating.
The effeminate, affable painter found a stack of letters tucked above a ceiling tile in our soon-to-be baby’s room and handed them over eagerly, if hesitantly. He probably found stuff like that all the time, never sure how old it was or how explosive it might be. These letters were decades old, left behind by a teenager for someone else to deal with. Please take care of my horrible secret. Signed, The Terrible Boyfriend
I was more mother than teenager then. I was bloated and round, not just in the belly but in the face, the ass and thighs. Even my fingers plumped in pregnancy like obscene sausages. I was brimming with life and wonderful, terrifying hormones.
I felt a mother’s protective instinct when the painter handed over the letters. I almost didn’t read them because even an almost-mother can smell someone else’s pain. This stack of letters reeked.
I read them, but only to make sure they didn’t reveal a murder or the location of buried treasure in the backyard. In our first house, we thought we’d struck gold while moving an azalea, but it turned out to be a partially decomposed bag of poodle. Never bury your dead pets in plastic garbage bags. There’s another tip for homeowners. You’re welcome.
Back to the letters. I don’t know who I felt worse for: the poor girl who wrote them or the poor guy who hid them in the drop ceiling. Neither seemed particularly likable, but you can still feel pity for unlikable people.
The girl was in college. She slipped a picture in one letter. Dark, shortish permed hair. Indeterminate height. University of Delaware sweatshirt with a white turtleneck underneath. Wary but confident smile. Cute, I guess, but prissy is the word that comes to mind.
Our boy was out of high school but still living at home, either skilled labor or burger slinger at the White Castle, maybe bagboy at the Stop ‘n Shop. I never got the sense of what attracted the one to the other, but it might have simply been the mysterious blend of different worlds and hormones. I gathered they met at a party and that lover boy already had a girlfriend he didn’t want anymore. Miss Delaware bought that one. She was raw need, but not the physical kind. She was more like when are you coming to see me again? I thought you were coming this weekend? Everyone loves to play hero, but not when it involves a lot of driving and nagging.
Her letters became progressively desperate. The first two aimed for cool detachment and missed the mark. By the third letter, it was clear our hero wasn’t writing back. She said she missed him, but in a tone that suggested she really missed the opportunity to shackle him to her dorm bunkbed. She said she tried to call but wasn’t sure his brothers were giving him the messages. By the final letter in the stack, she said she wasn’t used to feeling discarded. She said she hoped his girlfriend never found out what he was really like. I pictured him reading and re-reading this last part before shoving the stack up into the ceiling for good. I bet when he laid in his darkened room that night, he kept reading that part again and again in his head.
When do you think he realized he’d left the letters up there? Do you suppose he’ll wake at 3 a.m. a year and four months from now and think Oh dear god, the letters! Do you think he married the oblivious girlfriend? Is it possible he married Miss Delaware? (no way, right?) Do you think he died in a car accident, and that’s why he never came back for the letters? Or maybe he never wrote her back because of the accident, and it was a thoughtful brother who stashed the letters to save the oblivious, mourning girlfriend further despair.
I threw those stupid letters away right after reading them. We had a terrible trash compactor in that house that would stop working in a few months, and I distinctly remember dropping the letters and slamming it shut. I felt like I’d wrapped myself in a smallpox blanket. The deceit felt catching. Months later when I discovered Found Magazine, I kicked myself for throwing the letters away, but I probably did the right thing. Maybe I shouldn’t have written about them here. Your secrets aren’t safe anywhere, so don’t think you can hide them in drop ceilings. Never buy a house with drop ceilings. You know all of this already.
I decided to make Friday a day I post more creative writing pieces. If you have to wash your hair on Fridays, I’ll understand. I probably won’t post every Friday, though you should still wash your hair.