Laura Stamps



“Dear Elaine,” she writes on a postcard to herself. “You’ll never guess what I did yesterday. Went to the grocery store to buy four cans of yams. Came home with four cans of carrots. Didn’t even realize it. Got home. Looked in the bag. No yams. Just carrots. What? What? Still don’t know how that happened. My brain. Where was it? Geez. And this. While I’m writing this. This postcard. There’s a spot on the window. And it’s moving. No. Wait. Not a spot. A lady bug. That’s what it is. Must be November. That’s when the lady bugs hatch. The eaves of this apartment building are full of them. And centipedes. They’re up there too. They hatch in the spring. I think. But don’t quote me on that. And this. What’s the deal with winter? Stingy, stingy with the sun. It is. So gray. Someone should teach it to share. The sun. Sunshine. I miss it. I do. But those carrots. Can you believe it? Where was my brain? Where? Oh, well. Carrots. I’ll eat them. Every can. You know I will. As for my brain. I know, I know. Should be kinder to myself. I should. I mean. We all have our moments. Right? I guess. But then. I really did want those yams.”     

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