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.
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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.
Have done much the same. Not quite so young, but just as early, though. And her name was Linda Santos. Thanks for reminding me.
Hooray for all of them, and for all of us, too.
Lovely, so sweet and real. The tension builds until that perfect last line….boom. Well done. Thank you.
I still feel embarrassed after all those years have passed. You spoke for so many of us, Tony, as you often do.
I loved this, Tony