A mailbox with numbers. A silver mailbox with firm-red numbers painted on its side. One. Eight. Two. This was Peggy’s house. We sat next to each other in Mrs. Soldavini’s class—third grade.
It was five-thirty in the morning and I had never been outside so early. Except for once when the whole family left in the middle of the night for the 400-mile drive to Grandma’s, I had never even been awake this early. But somehow I woke up in time.
As I watched in all directions, my left hand pulled open the little door and then my right hand placed the card and the box of candy hearts deep inside.
A dog barked and I ran away as fast as I could. I’m still running.
Tony Press tries to pay attention. His stories (many) and poems (not as many) appear in a remarkable (to him) number of fine publications. Please seek them out.