always thought that five sheets was about the limit. I mean five
8 X 12 sheets of foolscap, folded twice, bent to the commandments of
the No. 10 regular envelope and the government strictures of a 37¢
stamp. I figured that was about as far as things could go.
You could push it, sure, but these were ideas for late at night, for
those hours when grey is the dominant scheme.
then odd things began appearing in my mailbox. Slices of someone
elses life, as fresh as foam, living things, half blood and half
dream. The first came on a Friday afternoonthe carrier was
late, he was never late, I knew something was upand its envelope
was bulging, almost as if it pulsated with hidden carnality.
was a hand. Or, at least, hand-like.
that I began putting the damn things on the credenza where they seemed
to form their own alien culture. A stranger looking at them might
believe they were a community, as lively as what goes on between the
walls. But strangers never come here, so this is moot.
went by and the credenza resembled a postdiluvian laboratory, a way
of looking at things like shadows and memory. Every time I placed
something new thereand they kept coming, smaller packages of meat
and metaphorthere was a gratitude alive in the house. It
was as warm as love.