The End of the Day, and: Night, and: Alphabet Soup, and: Translucent Blue Envelope

The End of the Day

There's a quiet blessing at the end of the day, as if someone had said good job, well done, and, regardless of outcomes, rest was what you'd earned. How many times I've spurned this simple blessing, running a fevered marathon—day turning into night, night to day again, the morning light unmerciful because I haven't closed my eyes?

Night

You are the strong shoulder we lean against to sleep, the lap that holds our dreaming heads as if each were the one and precious egg from which the world would rise again after day's casual destructions. Your quiet listens like no ear we've ever known. Your touch is softer than feathers, softer than ash. Your mysteries are deeper than the sea's. Many fear you. You are afraid of nothing.

Alphabet Soup

Little by little the Crevecoeur children are eating the nursery. At first they ate the Easy-Bake Oven treats, then Play-Doh, modeling clay, and crayons. Now they are gnawing the corners of wooden blocks. When's Mommy and Daddy coming back? Lisette, the littlest whined. Say that one more time, the others menaced, baring their glistening teeth.

Translucent Blue Envelope

Everything you love has vanished. Assiduously follow the enclosed instructions to reconstruct your world. The blue airmail envelope shook in Amy's hands. Five minutes ago pulling into her drive she had been mildly curious at the front door flung open wide, but bemusement had swelled to panic as she walked through rooms stripped bare of the life she'd made with Charles and their three children. Steadying her hands Amy opened the translucent envelope, careful not to tear a word.