Dear Frankie...
Letter 6.
Dear Frankie,
It’s early and it’s cold and October is almost over which means I’ll be three months pregnant soon and your birthday is coming up. I remember because it’s on Halloween. What an awful birthday for you.
But hopefully you’ll get to do whatever you want. I’ve got to take my sisters trick or treating. Which is awful and never-ending. The only highlight is that Hannah has decided to dress up as a Mother Superior. My parent think it’s a blasphemy but the sisters told them she is just showing her admiration to mother Therese.
Truth be told, Hannah is obsessed with The Beatles and didn’t know what miss Penny Lane looked like so she choose Mother Superior.
I can already see her in her bike with her red sneakers peaking under the mother superior gown I’m to be sewing next week, singing her heart out. Quite possibly she’ll want a plastic gun to go with the outfit.
Anyways, there was really nice crunch in the grass when I was walking toward the bus this morning and I think that’s a good sign. And the bus is completely empty so no one but the driver can see me cry like crazy all the way to Newark.
Why I’m going Newark you ask…. Well I figured if I went to a doctor in Belleville,
people would know. Plus Newark has that big Univ. Hospital right next to the
Fairmont cemetery so I can go visit the dead when I’m done. And maybe I’ll say hello
that grandma I never really met but had to go to her funeral. It was odd because when I saw her lying in her casket I just thought she was a pikey or a gypsy of some sort and that was the reason we never got to met her in life.
And since I’m never gonna meet her I’ve done a lot of thinking about her and about how we would be great friends and how she would play the cello like me or how she would tell me all that secret bible stuff they never tell you in church or show me her old tattoos and the proper way to smoke a cigar.
We’d be pagans together. Reciting Blake and chuckling at the father’s red nose.
I have no idea why I’m telling you all this or why I keep writing letters that you’ll never read. I guess it’s because I’ve got no one else to tell about my secret gypsy grandma, or to tell me things are going to be okay or to just hold my hand while I sneak out to go to the doctors to get a scary picture of the lump in my tummy.
You get to be stuck with the letters, I get to be stuck with myself.
From Newark,
Ava.
It’s early and it’s cold and October is almost over which means I’ll be three months pregnant soon and your birthday is coming up. I remember because it’s on Halloween. What an awful birthday for you.
But hopefully you’ll get to do whatever you want. I’ve got to take my sisters trick or treating. Which is awful and never-ending. The only highlight is that Hannah has decided to dress up as a Mother Superior. My parent think it’s a blasphemy but the sisters told them she is just showing her admiration to mother Therese.
Truth be told, Hannah is obsessed with The Beatles and didn’t know what miss Penny Lane looked like so she choose Mother Superior.
I can already see her in her bike with her red sneakers peaking under the mother superior gown I’m to be sewing next week, singing her heart out. Quite possibly she’ll want a plastic gun to go with the outfit.
Anyways, there was really nice crunch in the grass when I was walking toward the bus this morning and I think that’s a good sign. And the bus is completely empty so no one but the driver can see me cry like crazy all the way to Newark.
Why I’m going Newark you ask…. Well I figured if I went to a doctor in Belleville,
people would know. Plus Newark has that big Univ. Hospital right next to the
Fairmont cemetery so I can go visit the dead when I’m done. And maybe I’ll say hello
that grandma I never really met but had to go to her funeral. It was odd because when I saw her lying in her casket I just thought she was a pikey or a gypsy of some sort and that was the reason we never got to met her in life.
And since I’m never gonna meet her I’ve done a lot of thinking about her and about how we would be great friends and how she would play the cello like me or how she would tell me all that secret bible stuff they never tell you in church or show me her old tattoos and the proper way to smoke a cigar.
We’d be pagans together. Reciting Blake and chuckling at the father’s red nose.
I have no idea why I’m telling you all this or why I keep writing letters that you’ll never read. I guess it’s because I’ve got no one else to tell about my secret gypsy grandma, or to tell me things are going to be okay or to just hold my hand while I sneak out to go to the doctors to get a scary picture of the lump in my tummy.
You get to be stuck with the letters, I get to be stuck with myself.
From Newark,
Ava.