It was a long drive home, up 6, down 25, through the summer Friday traffic. When I pulled onto Elm Drive I could finally breathe easy. I pushed the black button on the Craftsman opener clipped to my sun visor and the garage door lurched and lifted, but the overhead light didn’t go on as it usually did. Where was my wife’s car? Where was the recyclable bin? I picked up an unaddressed white envelope from the garage floor and pulled the lone sheet of paper out. The words were in crayon, in a child’s hand, but we didn’t have children or friends with children. “Dear Kimosabe” was all it said.
Wednesday, October 03, 2012
The Even More Mysterious Arrival of an Even More Unusual Letter
after Mark Strand
It was a long drive home, up 6, down 25, through the summer Friday traffic. When I pulled onto Elm Drive I could finally breathe easy. I pushed the black button on the Craftsman opener clipped to my sun visor and the garage door lurched and lifted, but the overhead light didn’t go on as it usually did. Where was my wife’s car? Where was the recyclable bin? I picked up an unaddressed white envelope from the garage floor and pulled the lone sheet of paper out. The words were in crayon, in a child’s hand, but we didn’t have children or friends with children. “Dear Kimosabe” was all it said.
It was a long drive home, up 6, down 25, through the summer Friday traffic. When I pulled onto Elm Drive I could finally breathe easy. I pushed the black button on the Craftsman opener clipped to my sun visor and the garage door lurched and lifted, but the overhead light didn’t go on as it usually did. Where was my wife’s car? Where was the recyclable bin? I picked up an unaddressed white envelope from the garage floor and pulled the lone sheet of paper out. The words were in crayon, in a child’s hand, but we didn’t have children or friends with children. “Dear Kimosabe” was all it said.
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