Wednesday, January 19, 2011

The floor falls away, but my house is small, and a chair is close. I fumble the envelope open.

Dear Misha,

My sister's neat, round writing blurs.

Dear Misha,

Mom has cancer. It's pancreatic. They're starting treatment right away, and they speak in hopeful voices, but I don't think she has much time. I'm sorry to send this news in the mail. Please come home soon.

The day stops. And isn't this what I feared--another bad thing?

I'm still shaking, but I reach into the cookie jar and pull out my cash.

It's time to see the Chief.

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