The dishes have just recently been done. It is such a good Sunday afternoon feeling! Dirt from potted plants is already scattered in little mineral-filled chunks around the sink. However, an uneasy feeling comes from avoiding working in the garden as I am standing in the kitchen. The television is on in the living room. There is a package of four frozen oranges thawing on the kitchen counter - one is missing.

I push some fern fronds aside and fill a cup with water. I retire to my curtain-darkened room and put the cup on the yellow table next to the window. There are two windows right next to each other - I know this - behind the plastic shade. I push up the shade with my head. I find the world in very late afternoon. The garden is turned and wet with plugs of new impatiens. I see that one of the windows is opened partly, allowing for air to flow through the mesh screen. The neighbor son and father are playing with a baseball and two gloves.

I pull back carefully allowing the shade to drop. I sat right here in the dark a few nights ago writing a love letter on the windowsill to a pretty brown-haired girl around the corner. My first love letter. A brilliant piece for a twelve-year-old. I wrote by the light of the streetlamp and the late May lightning storm going on outside. Occasionally I would have to turn on my George Washington lamp to verify some words. I never mailed the letter.



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