Sometimes I think of you when I eat spaghetti or watch dumb John Cusack movies. You know, I really hate tabasco sauce, but I remember fireworks. There was no plaster, but remember when when found that shed? Someone once told me that people pay a fortune for old wood: barn wood, ship wood, drift wood. I wonder if they’ve chopped that shed down, sold it or burned it for fire. It’s burning me up now, like I’v had too much wine and its spreading from my throat, stomach to my poorly circulated digits. You were never very good at math, but we both loved Santa Claus. Sometimes I lace my fingers together and pretend like they are cogs to someone’s pocket watch and I try to rotate them out, but it never works too well. No, it never works too well.
