Huckleberry Friend

We're after the same…

  I don’t know why it soothes me so when the mail comes, the sound of the metal door swinging open then closing—satisfying—shut.   The post’s arrival marks mid-afternoon, a quarter-note in the cadence of slow days. I try to shed pajamas and get the babies bathed by eleven most mornings.   The mail-woman—she’s in her late sixties, I …

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