![]() I heard the rapid fire of his shutter as he held down the release button, his lens angled up at the slanted glass roof. “Just read it,” Beck said from behind his camera. Nineteen and a half hours later it bore an impressive coffee stain and was still unopened. The envelope arrived a month after my sixteenth birthday, on an otherwise unmemorable Wednesday afternoon in April. Less, because there was nothing about that nondescript rectangle to imply that there was life-changing information inside. ![]() More, because their decision was printed in ink, on thick cotton paper, which felt a little like they’d carved it in stone. IT CAME IN A PLAIN WHITE ENVELOPE, which made both more and less of its significance. ![]() ![]() In loving memory of my Granny Bea, who would’ve surely been committed for APD ![]()
0 Comments
Leave a Reply. |