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Pen Pals My father’s desk is covered in piles of small, white security envelopes Usually, my father slits the top of each envelope with a fake dagger
from Spain, someone who didn’t make it to church, Parishioners send handwritten notes with the checks, scrawled neatly
in cursive It’s part of the job, receiving the church’s mail, tending
to the infrequent inquiry Sorting out church bills from promotional flyers, the small white envelopes But someone who sits in church each week, someone whose skirt or suit
someone who calls the prayer line at any hour has been watching our family,
taking notes. Each week the letters arrive in small, white security envelopes with
no return address Everyone’s entitled to an opinion, he shrugs, but the letters that
plague him, two more children, calculate our water usage, note the late hours lights
are on, demand he take over the custodial duties and fire the janitor to save
money, and ask how he can be a good little soldier of God when his daughter
is gay. "Pen Pals" was first published in The New Writer (Fall 2000) |
J.
Elizabeth Clark, Ph.D. (lclark@lagcc.cuny.edu)
![]() This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 United States License. Site Credits: This site was last updated on 13 May 2009. Site designed and maintained by J. Elizabeth Clark. Technical Assistance provided by Delwar Sayeed and Priscilla Stadler. |
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