In the spring we trimmed the apple trees to shape a space that now
in summer is a leafy little grotto. I have taken to writing all my
postcards here. My son sits with me writing with chalk on a flagstone,
word after word that he quickly erases with a swipe of his small hand.
My wife is calling from inside the house, and although I do not know
what she is saying there is a shape to the sound of her voice that I
recognize, and I know that she is alright, that I do not need to hurry
inside, because I will speak with her soon, in the early evening
perhaps. It is the second time today I've seen such a shape. This
morning, while driving in the road, a man came shouting after the car,
waving his arms and trying to tell me something. I tried to read his
lips in the rearview mirror, but perhaps because the message was
backwards, or because the message was closer than it appeared, I could
not make it out, and yet that reassuring shape was in the distant sound
of it, and so I hoped it would come to me later, perhaps in the
afternoon, while sitting in this grotto, writing you this postcard.
- - -
M. T. Fallon lives in Colorado. Recent fiction appears or will appear in Beloit Fiction Journal,
elimae, Hobart, Opium, and Unsaid.
Photo detail on main page courtesy
of Naked Eyes.
Read MTF's story, "Finale."
w i g · l e a F