Dear Wigleaf,
 
All summer I had a yellow kitchen on the third floor under the slates, with gable windows up to my shoulders so while I made breakfast the cheer-ups of robins I couldn't see were at my feet in the trees of backyard neighbors I hadn't met. I tasted oranges, and how much I was going to get done.
 
There was a circus in town the week I moved in. I grew nearly tired of the carousel; the same songs, whether or not anyone was riding. You could trace the circus afterward in the dead grass in the park. Town was so still a cough went for blocks.
 
The carousel's tune was forgettable, but I remember its wrung-out sound. I didn't want and couldn't afford a vacation. I only wanted to finish.
 
Sarah






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Read SM's story, "Inheritance."

w i g · l e a F               09-03-10                                [home]