Dear Wigleaf,

I'm outside my father's house, looking through the window, writing this postcard because he won't let me in. The door is locked when I turn the handle. I try my spare key. I knock on the door. I knock on the door. It wasn't cold this morning, but it's getting there. My coat and hat and gloves are in the house. I look through the window and my father and mother are reliving the only day they ever loved each other. Him, sitting at the table, shirtless, beer belly, singing Ricky Skaggs tunes along with the record player. My mother, sitting beside him, enamored. My little brother on her lap, stealing sips from her can of Pabst. Laughing, telling jokes about the time I almost died because the babysitter left a half-cup of train oil on the floor beside the model track and I drank it. And another one about the time my oldest sister super-glued my eyes shut. Meatloaf and mashed potatoes on the stove, applesauce sprinkled with cinnamon. My father sees me looking, closes the curtains. The laughing gets louder. The air outside gets colder. I knock on the window. I knock on the window. He opens the curtain back up. All three of them pointing at me. Laughing. Laughing, like the time my mother was pregnant and fell down a hill and rolled like a snowball. My father might already be dead and this may or may not actually be a parable.

Keep doing what you're doing and God bless,


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Barry Graham is a simple man, who writes about simple things, very simply. Look for him in Hobart, Storyglossia, Monkeybicycle, Pindeldyboz, and Found.   

Read his story, "This Story Is Not about Ham and Cheese Sandwiches."

w i g · l e a F               03-08-08                                [home]