Spitball Army

New Year’s Eve 1944. “Send some snapshots, and those cigarettes,” he writes from his bunk. “And kiss one, before they get stale.”

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She felt odd writing her heart in a V-mail, so she chronicled the weather lovingly: in Iwo Jima ash, he read of her Michigan snow.

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The fountain pen, of crushed oyster shell, wrote with a gold nib. The note, on a telegraph form, began: I’ve been a damnable fool.

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His new job revealed the most vital topics of inter-office gab: cars, kids and sex. He was willingly conversant in one of them.

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I feel comforted and far from alone when my telephone identifies a missed call as TEXAS, as if one-fiftieth of America wants me.

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“I love Christmas,” said the woman, ankles wrapped in plastic bags, “It’s the Lord’s time.” Her companion rummaged in a Frito bag.

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She took it all too personally: when I thanked her for saying Hello, she acted terrified that she might’ve ignored me in the past.

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Covered in an icy translucent sheath, the myelinated high-wires pulsed with energy; the neighborhood twinkled with light, for now.

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Students juggled mugs and bowls to the dining hall tables while, on the snowy dorm steps, classmates sledded on cafeteria trays.

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The announcer inside the clock radio perkily voiced, “I hope your Tuesday morning is going better than mine.” That woke me up.

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