Dear Wigleaf,

I am writing to you just before Christmas and I am at the post office. I need one stamp and yet there are about twenty people in front of me. I keep looking at the postal workers behind the desk and they seem to be moving in slow motion. There are only three of them. The woman in front of me is smushing a stuffed animal into a Priority Mail box that is too small for it. I hear someone behind me talking about a series of stamps with the characters of Seinfeld on them. I'm not sure if this is true or not, but now an argument about TV shows has ensued... Another twenty minutes has passed and it feels like the line is not moving. I look behind me and see that the line is out the door now. I imagine other stamps that could be created. Kurt Vonnegut. Susan Sontag? I move a few inches forward and then one of the workers mysteriously leaves her station. There are only two people working and their pace has not picked up. I feel a tickle in my throat and start coughing uncontrollably but they don't even look up. I could have died right here. I feel an anger and frustration building inside me but I am surviving. The post office will not kill me. I am living proof. Someday soon, you will get this card and know.

highest hopes,


- - -

Read KS's story, "The Parachute."

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