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Momma to hell!

Busily, day by day, I added to my collection of

news clippings and blurry photographs cut from many

newspapers. That's where most of my "pin money"

went. Though I stared at all the pictures of Momma

with hate and loathing, I looked at her husband with

admiration. How very handsome, how powerfully

built her young husband was with his long, lean,

darkly bronzed skin. I stared at the photograph that

showed him lifting a champagne glass high as he

toasted his wife on their second wedding anniversary. I decided that night to send Momma a short

note. Sent first class, it would be forwarded. Dear Mrs. Winslow,

How well I remember the summer of your

honeymoon. It was a wonderful summer, so

refreshingly pleasant in the mountains in a locked

room with windows that were never opened. Congratulations and my very best wishes, Mrs. Winslow, and I do hope all your future summers, winters, springs and falls will be haunted by the memory of the kind of summers, winters, springs and

falls your Dresden dolls used to have.

Not yours anymore,

The doctor doll,

The ballerina doll,

The praying-to-grow-taller doll,

And the dead doll.

I ran to post the letter and no sooner had I

dropped it in the mailbox on the corner than I was

wishing I had it back. Chris would hate me for doing

this.

It rained that night and I got up to watch the

storm. Tears streaked my face as much as the rain

streaked the window glass. Because it was Saturday

Chris was home. He was out there on the veranda,