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          For seven years, his letter lay nestled behind the mantelpiece, a silent witness to Rachel's lonely journey.  She didn't know it was there; she couldn't possibly know. He'd left it propped up against an old snow globe without a word, trusting she would find it but unable to stay any longer and be sure.  Then he'd left Rachel, out of necessity, all those years ago.

          When his letter had first slid into its snug, unseen slot between the mantle and the wall, blown there by a fated gust of wind, it had remained optimistic. It had waited and waited, ever patient and hopeful.  Rachel would find it.  One day, she would see its white, crisp corner poking from between the drywall and stone; she had to see it.

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(SOME ADULT SCENES)

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How I Became a Poet

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             James Dean walked into my bedroom this evening. I was just pulling some straight pins out of a dress shirt.  Two of the pins were in my mouth and I was trying to get that tricky bastard out of the collar button.  James Dean walked in and I’ll admit I jumped a little bit and I pricked myself in the finger.  I thought the house was empty and I didn’t expect anyone in the doorway.

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Therese, the mother, is deeply fatigued, and bone weary. Weary like no other time in her life. Not since late nights in grad school, the papers and research baffling her; not since that time when the kids were small and Henri was out of work; not even when traveling by air with the kids, that trip they took to Chicago to visit cousins. Her son was a baby and screaming during the delay on the ground and then finally the takeoff. Emmaline was what then, eight? No, she must have been nine, the fall of third grade, because she'd finally consented to be a brownie scout and wanted to wear her sash everywhere, including on the plane.  Her son wouldn't stop crying, making the shrill panicky sounds babies make in unfamiliar surroundings, constrained in small areas, bounced by their nervous self-conscious mothers, who know deep down that all the other passengers are wishing, praying, impatient for the baby to quiet down. Can't that mother get her baby to just shut up?

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"Where the Leaves Don't Fall"

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