Inspired by the One-Minute Writer challenge:
“You anxiously walk towards the mailbox, palms sweating, hope building in your chest. Would today be the day it arrives at last? You pull open the hinged door….”
This is for “Crossing Seasons.”
Deborah held the envelope in her damp hands. Thin was bad, she thought, adjusting the kerchief around her head. Worse than the hair she was losing. If this was the result she didn’t want, let alone need, the only thing remaining was praying for the strength to succeed.
The sun over the small flower circle at the base of the mailbox vanished under his shadow. Her husband only called her by her middle name when he was concerned, when she tried to conceal something from him. How the two of them could sit on opposite sides of a poker table and never call on the others ‘yet-to-find’ tells was beyond her.