Post Box Blues
I sent her letters. Maybe I sent too many; maybe I didn’t send enough. I have never been a reliable judge of the post. In fact, I live in fear of that terrifying black box nailed to the front of a little blue house. Because it generally contains bad news. Or other angry reminders that I lack proper adulting skills when left unsupervised. So it is impossible for me to confirm with any certainty. She sent only skeletons in return. And that’s probably fair. We were never anything but ghosts anyway. Two inconsistent creatures stalking the night across two different time zones. Coming at life from very different stations. Her view of these flyover fields from the mountains was obscured by the allure of affluence. The …
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