Friday, October 23, 2009

South Lake Tahoe, 1970

by Daryl Edelman

I was twelve. Burlinda, wise fourteen, said she liked my writing but didn't understand it. I remember her family's frowsy black bird walked on the kitchen counter and left peck marks on the soft butter bar there. She wrote on my FaceBook wall today, "Absolutley nobody calls my brother Squeaker anymore. Remind me of the past." She's still pretty.