Dear Wigleaf, Perhaps you'll get this message. I hope you will. I asked the maid to take it when she goes home. She says there's a post office on the way, a stone one with pillars. Stone stands safe. There's a post box outside this window. I can see it if I lean out and turn my head. But nobody ever drops mail there, and nobody ever picks it up. Daddy said that's one of the ways you can tell if a country's civilized: you can count on the mail getting through. The other way is, they don't put ice cubes in wine. Once I set foot outside the door. I took seven steps down the hall. One for every letter in your name. Then I looked down, and the black and white squares made me bilious. The hall pitched and swung like an angry church bell, one that said: You can't Go home No more No more A nice bellhop took me back to my room, my safe room with a tame rug and no jumping squares on the floor, and here I am still. Maybe you'll get this postcard. Maybe I'll hear your knock on my door, our old clubhouse knock: Shave and a haircut— Two bits! And I'll open the door and there you'll be. You'll tell me it's all right now. You'll tell me it's time to come home. - - -
Read Kathryn Kulpa's story.
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