Dear Wigleaf,

They're thick on the ground there as here, so look out or you'll trip. Do you remember that one we found in the ditch out behind the old house, mud thick as thieves but we were the ones who stole it away, caked all over our bodies? I'm still telling that one and will be until I've told away all that mud but there's always a bit in my ears.

And a few splinters, too, so deep under my nails they are the nails now and most of my fingers. I can't touch a thing without feeling that stump we crawled way down inside and carved out a den, without tasting the toadstools and moss that were salad in our salad days.

Did we ever come out?

Don't forget,

Steve





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Read SH's story, "The Boatman."

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