Momma to hell!
Busily, day by day, I added to my collection of
news clippings and blurry photographs cut from many
newspapers. That's where most of my "pin money"
went. Though I stared at all the pictures of Momma
with hate and loathing, I looked at her husband with
admiration. How very handsome, how powerfully
built her young husband was with his long, lean,
darkly bronzed skin. I stared at the photograph that
showed him lifting a champagne glass high as he
toasted his wife on their second wedding anniversary. I decided that night to send Momma a short
note. Sent first class, it would be forwarded. Dear Mrs. Winslow,
How well I remember the summer of your
honeymoon. It was a wonderful summer, so
refreshingly pleasant in the mountains in a locked
room with windows that were never opened. Congratulations and my very best wishes, Mrs. Winslow, and I do hope all your future summers, winters, springs and falls will be haunted by the memory of the kind of summers, winters, springs and
falls your Dresden dolls used to have.
Not yours anymore,
The doctor doll,
The ballerina doll,
The praying-to-grow-taller doll,
And the dead doll.
I ran to post the letter and no sooner had I
dropped it in the mailbox on the corner than I was
wishing I had it back. Chris would hate me for doing
this.
It rained that night and I got up to watch the
storm. Tears streaked my face as much as the rain
streaked the window glass. Because it was Saturday
Chris was home. He was out there on the veranda,