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Letter to Agnieszka
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Dear Agnieszka,

I threw away a pound of pickles this morning and took the sour jar down to the creek with a loaf of Wonder Bread. The tadpoles weren't at all hard to catch, the confused creatures that they are. I must have caught one for each stone piled like an unetched coin on the bank. I let them all go a jarful at a time, wondering how many I might catch again as frogs.

In the afternoon, I followed the path Seth would have taken home if the current hadn't taken him elsewhere. The whole trek took me but ten minutes at a thoughtful pace. But it might have taken him longer because he could have fit both of his little feet on one of mine.

He was so light I could have carried him. But I didn't care much for tadpole fishing then. I didn't care much for writing letters, either.

He so loved visiting you. He talked endlessly about the trees in Aunt Nicy's garden: Mr. Peach and Mr. Apricot. He often asked me how big I thought they had grown. How big are they now?

Warmest regards,

Isabelle
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D. Sadres
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Copyright © D. Sadres
November 1998

...a poem in this room by Holly Pettit...
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