A Thank You from Stella, or, Our Dog Was a Terrorist

One of the first things Stella did when she entered our lives was bite Ray's father in the nuts.

Not enough to hurt him, or break the skin. Just enough to be hilarious. They were running together in a grass backyard in Jackson, NJ, and Papa turned on her fast, as if catching a spiral. She blocked the play with a mouth to the jewels. It was an indicator that we needed to get our new creature to school, and that whatever horrific starvation and mistreatment Stella had endured, she was totes over it. Because dogs who are not over it do not gently jostle genitals for fun--they destroy them with purpose.

In spite of all our crying, photo posting, crying, and also crying, Stella passed in happiness on Sunday because of the selfless gifts of (mostly) strangers. Some monetarily, some morale. It made for a loving crossover in the comfort of her home, wrapped in her blankie, cradled by three sets of hands while Gillian Welch sang "I'll Fly Away." The song ended with Stella's last breath--a blessing of divine theatrics--and our girl stepped into space to literal applause.

To all: Thank you for giving her peace and dignity. Thank you for caring about weepy strangers on the other side of a computer screen. Now, we have to come clean.

You were told about Stella's compassionate soul and sweet disposition. But we left out how she was an evil, garbage-fiending genius with mutant superpaws. And how she betrayed The United States of America. And that time she ate an innocent dreamcatcher off a wall. We didn't want anyone to know her sordid past. Things are different now. Friends of The Ninga (named for the sound of her tags jingling) should know them. And laugh at them.

Stella was stone deaf, but could hear laughter.


Ningconvenient Truths

-- The Dreamcatcher. Given to us by a dear friend, it hung on the wall behind the bed. It was made out of good leather, and subtly decorated. Stella slept under the dreamcatcher with mom and dad every night for nearly two years. Then, one Wednesday afternoon, she waited until she was alone, climbed onto the bed, stood on her hind legs with her front paws on the wall, and yanked the ornament down by its decorative leather tassels. Somewhere, a Native American cried without knowing why. No one knew what had happened until she started shitting feathers. The motive of this senseless crime remains unknown.

-- We bought a "wolf proof" garbage can with a lifetime guarantee. It was wall mounted with giant screws into the bones of the apartment, had two different locks, and was an impenetrable rectangle of slick steel. In 14 days there were two deep holes in the wall, the lid had been pulled from the can like a skull from a spine, and we were used to seeing a broken kitchen trash can chillin' in the bathtub.

-- Stella's inbreeding gave her the deafness, cow coloring, and health complications. It also gave her a dewclaw and exceptionally long, almost prehensile, feet. The mutation allowed her to curl her paw into your palm during snuggles, as well as wreck havoc on kitchens, closets, cabinets, and pantries. Anything with a horizontal grip was fair game. Low mounted knobs? Please...so easy. The fridge? There's a reason we only kept condiments on the bottom shelf. The peanut butter wasn't safe in the pantry, and it wasn't safe in its jar. Both front paws could grip the lid, and it only took a few minutes to go from "Chunky" to "That expensive organic nutty shit all over your dog's muzzle."

-- For three weeks we fundraised to build care packages for troops in Iraq, then spent another week buying all the goodies and boxing them for a trip overseas. Four large boxes total, stuffed with magazines, books, jerky, granola, roasted nuts, drink powder. It took Stella around 2-3 hours (after the dog walker left, before we got home) to open the bedroom and bedroom closet door, drag out and open all four boxes, and sort through what she wanted. She discarded the beef jerky and ate 3 pounds of cinnamon raisin granola--you know, the only thing in the box that could kill her. It made her poo smell like a candle.

We had a brief discussion with the vet about whether stealing charity food from American heros was an act of terrorism. Stella was acquitted, but remains on a Bush-era watch list of unpatriotic dogs.

-- Mom's first adult tetanus booster came as a result of Stella's extremist vaccination advocacy. She could have left a note, maybe, saying it was time. Instead, she waited for mom to strap on the rollerblades and take her for a roll. She remained docile throughout the 15-minute jaunt. And then, just as she reached the home stretch of Main Street in full view of an emptying NJ Transit commuter train, she bolted. Maybe there was a rabbit. Maybe there wasn't. But she did use all 50lbs. of pit muscle to suddenly sprint as if compelled by god for 50 meters, towing mom behind. Dad said Mom's scream had a doppler effect as he watched his new dog and old ladyfriend roll into, and then out of, sight. The next day, Mom was all good on tetnus shots until age 34. Also rollerblading.

Stella was so devoted to Dad she stored her bones in his hats and boxing gloves. She sat next to mommy for nearly every IV and injection for 6 years, and whimpered when they brought the needles out. There are so many stories.

Today, I so regret never letting her throttle any of the swans in sweet Cranford Park. It would have been epic, and she would have smiled so wide. We ended up moving anyway.

I'll fly away...

We love you baby girl.

Awkward Forward Momentum

I fell off my blog.

Lost my balance when something unseen hip-checked me and tossed me off the wheels, into some dark corner.

I spent a few months feeling shadowy. I found and goofed around with Gollum, sat beside him turning things over and over in my palms. I grew accustomed to him waking me with a hissy little "my precious." We played handball with a bouncing circle of obsession. We spent a lot of time doing many things with words that end with "ession" in general.

There's a tremendous amount of equally esoteric metaphoric hooey that I could wax poetic about until you slam that Macbook shut while eye-rolling---wait, YOU, no, don't go yet, don't click off to the next pa--

--lost that one.

Ah well.

In short I fell off of much and into more and also stopped writing altogether. Which is no great loss to readers, because there is always someone somewhere writing something worth reading; most of the time it excludes weird side-rants about playing handball with Lord of the Rings characters.

But today I tripped and fell back on and started rolling along, slowly. It's like stumbling over a curb face-down onto a skateboard and lurching forward, injured: breasts smushed weirdly against the body, scraped arms out, shocked legs taut, the toes dragging behind. But somehow, forward momentum. Awkward forward momentum.

Rolling on, as if nothing had ever happened.

On Creative Vampires (A Letter About The People Who'll Suck You Dry Through Two Holes if You Let Them)

I received a letter recently from a young poet. (No, I am not going all Rilke on ya'll). Upon the printing of her first commercial poems she discovered a backhanded compliment via Facebook (the Mecca of passive-aggressive bulldinky) from a writer accusing her of aspiring to be something she's not, for "forgetting her true friends" in the process. They claimed that anyone who wrote for money was "selling out."

Gut reaction: F@#!. THAT. NOISE.

Secondary more mature reaction: This happens more frequently to writers and creatives of all kinds than any teacher or book can ever prepare you for.

It knocked loose the memory of a successful writer-poet-journalist-friend who recently experienced something similar: After a milestone year she published a piece thanking the writers, mentors and patrons who supported and inspired her over the course of 365 days. Soon thereafter an old contact got in touch to let her know he was "one of the ones who knows" her "best," and therefore HAD to express his feeling that her essay was a grotesque combination of unchecked ego and name-dropping. He also alluded to something the other young poet's friend did: selling out.

She wrote to me fuming, wounded in that way that comes with realizing you and a creative cohort are parting ways, questioning which sides of the river you'll soon be staring at each other from.

Below is my (edited) response to her. It is a version of what I will also send to the young poet.

It is what I wish someone had said to me a long time ago:

[To my creative Lovie];

Once you've hit a certain point in your growth bursts of uninvited opinion are inevitable. Some will happen to your face. Most will happen behind your back.

Jealousy and ambition in combination form a strange, unpredictable cocktail. The jealousy shot is palpable...it masquerades as concern, insight, criticism or commentary. But its foundation is, "Why do these things happen for someone else and not happen for me?" A creative always wrestles with jealousy, because in order to focus on "the work" we must tune it out, stay the course, support others going through the same struggle...everything we've ever read in any verbose artist's journal. 

Your "friend" is jealous and understandably wrestling personally with it.

But his ambition has kicked in and stirred the struggle with jealousy and shame into a less-than-personable email. [Or conversation. Or note. Or Facebook post.]

By writing to you, alternately stroking and slapping you (and not in a fun, vaguely pleasurable way) with his uninvited opinions, he is subliminally saying "I know you better than these successful new contacts of yours. I am someone worth remembering." He writes to work through his own issues, and he writes so you will not forget him--so that you will remember his struggle with ambition and success, relate to it and deem him worthy...

...then tap him to be the next person pulled up the ladder by the chain of friends, mentors and patrons who have made your own success possible.

When someone writes something condescending from the position of stalwart advocate or ally, what they are really saying is this: "Please take me with you to that place I claim I do not want to go."

Tune. These people. Out.

If you are like many writers, you have never (not seriously anyway, or at least without the influence of several bottles of port or dusty pint of whiskey) pretended you want only to write in a garret somewhere, penning a great work on parchment to later hide in a cupboard where those who have not been enlightened would damage it by reading it before you die of consumption.

You see things, experience them, suss out meanings and work hard to put them into words. You want people to read those words and experience something as well. In order for people to read them you have to put them out there.

Writing (for now) about your experience as a starving artist doesn't mean you want to be defined by starvation. Mapplehthorpe, Warhol, Joplin, Cobain, Lennon, Patti Smith...they all believed in "art." They also wanted to, and struggled with, the desire (and occasional inability) to EAT.

Do not let anyone who covets your dinner make you defend your desire to eat. 

Now this part is important, and I add it with intense love: In almost every criticism there will be some tiny thread of reality you can choose to tug on, or not.

You  have thanked people you love and who love you, but also people you are proud to be associated with, correct? There's a little ego in that...and there bloody well should be. Why shouldn't there be? Look what you did so far. Look what you are doing. But it is true that that same sliver of ego, or inkblot of simple pride, will be interpreted by some as "name-dropping," and it will alienate them. Think about how you feel about that. If you don't care, own it and carry on. If you find you do care, recalibrate your delivery.

There is no wrong choice so long as you recognize and own it.

My own humble personal rule has been this: Promote your friends and contemporaries, but keep your mentors secret.

Or, in more sound-bitey terms: "Shine your light as bright as it can burn, baby, but keep your fuel source well-protected." 

This response is a little long. I am not sorry about that. I mean all of it and hope it helps now and in the future, because you will have many unsolicited opinions forced upon you over a lifetime.

Stay strong and be sure to stake any vampires that threaten to suck you dry.

Love Always,

KK Van Helsing

The Trouble With (National) Poet(ry Month), Plus the Slurred Genius of Accidental Poet "Dominque"

April is National Poetry Month. This guarantees that:

A) Today you will see a peppering of blog posts and pseudonews items about National Poetry Month.
     a1. By tomorrow you will have forgotten it is National Poetry Month.

B) Lovers of poetry will spend the next 30 days re-reminding you that it is National Poetry Month.
     b1. You will slowly grow to resent them. 

C) People with internet platforms will publicly "celebrate" National Poetry Month.
     c1. Mostly by posting cringe-verse torn from their high school journals, greatest hits from undergrad History of Lit books (largely Yeats, Whitman, Blake, Frost and Angelou) and/or lines from the most notable poetry figure from their home town/state/country.

D) On April 30 most poets will still feel isolated and under-appreciated.
     d1. Additional April 30th projection statistics: 98% of all poetry-haters will still hate poetry. 1% will have defected to the pro-poetry side. The remaining 1% will have died of old age or unrelated catastrophes. 

Also, Barnes and Noble will feature discounted boxes of magnetic poetry sets:

Only people with metal surfaces in their home are allowed to write poetry.

As the author of a blog with the word "poet" in the title, I will contribute to this arbitrary public exercise by continuing business as usual, and by posting any examples I can find of Accidental Poetry.

Business as usual:
a snippet from "On Creative Loneliness," an old cringe-piece responding to "The Importance of Solitude:"

"but who will write the writer
in return
curl words back in reciprocal arcs
greet her in the morning
with three even lines in ink
on a napkin

silence, golden 
but after the hushes
the observer bears the weight

to see so much
to be seen so little"

And my first NaPoMo contribution, a must watch (with sound turned up high):

Accidental Poetry by Dominique: "U is for Eunice"
(Bio: Dominique is an upbeat girl-about-town who recently relocated from Desperation, MA, to Self-Loathing, PA, where she currently lives under her pillow. When not recording poetry on Ryan's message machine, she enjoys binge-drinking Firefly Sweet Tea Vodka, playing with yo-yos, entering spelling bees and giggling. By day, Dominique works for either eBay or Jamba Juice, we're not quite sure.)

Pippah and her Box, or, Septuagenarious Long-Form Love Part II: It Does Get Easier, It Seems

Snowed in back on February 1, 2011, I got bored and decided to post an intro to a fiction piece about Saul and Pippah, two geriatric lovies who start a cross-country affair in their late 70s. I'm not sure about continuing to post, despite very kind comments from lovely people asking what happens next. The lovies are wrapped up in an early draft now (edits, not cold breezes). A mentor told me once that nothing should be kept more private than early drafts. A different mentor says that advice is bullshit. I don't know who to agree with. What I do know is there's more story and some of you have requested it, so I'm putting it up. I can catalog facepalm regrets later. 

It's a bit long--read a bit, take a break, grab a highball, return if you fancy. Bourbon feels appropriate. Or vodka stingers. Old ladies love vodka stingers.


Meet Pippah. She just landed.

It Does Get Easier, It Seems (continued)

Pippah Allenson hated New York City. The lack of sky. The unfamiliar faces. Paved main arteries crowded with taillights, glowing day and night. Something vaguely sinister about it all. Little things in that city triggered hidden anxieties, crept over her normally squared shoulders like a heated straitjacket, pulling her in on herself. By day’s end there she was always an inch shorter, hunched over slightly at the shoulders, finding it hard to breathe. New York City took her breath away and not in the good way. 

The people there were kind enough, or at least more than how the biddies back in Boise frequently complained they were. New Yorkers opened doors for her, offered up their train seats. Kind eyes or a helpful hand when going up steep stairs. But she found their reckless speed distressing, as if at any moment she would witness some catastrophic collision, the kind one sees behind closed eyelids long after the event takes place. She especially felt it on subway platforms--that sucking pressure in the tunnels stirring dread into the air, the monster in its cave approaching, rats skittering around. From the safe distance of tiled walls or behind oversize public trash cans Pippah would watch foolish local prey creeping closer to the edge, flinching when they clamored over one another as each screaming train pulled in. She always worried one of them would topple over, spilling onto the death trap of track and toasting on the third rail. 


Or worse, knock her in during their graceless racing if she stepped too close herself.

Pippah found the city streets only marginally less distressing. The grid of midtown’s avenues were easy enough to navigate, but other sections of town, the insidious “villages” in particular, were as poorly organized as playing cards thrown onto the ground. Sometimes street signs disappeared under unsteady-looking scaffolding, rendering them unidentifiable without younger eyes or ladders. And their names, the layout, the lack of logical progression...they had been organized with no directional rhyme or reason she could distinguish. The West Village for example, where West 12th Street was not followed by West 11th; Bank Street separated the two, with Perry and Charles appearing after 11th but before West 10th. And there was no West 9th at all. Just Christopher Street and then Grove--which, if you walked in a certain direction, turned back into Christopher again. The city was a labyrinth designed to test her patience.

Just as autumn’s orange tinge officially set down roots in Ada County, Pippah boarded a red-eye flight from Boise Airport to JFK, exiting a terminal in Queens, New York, on the morning of her 76th birthday. She came alone this trip. John was, almost thankfully, unable to join her, due to his participation in a Texas Hold ‘Em tournament that weekend at their local Elk's Lodge. She was characteristically unsentimental about the day or its significance. 75 had been the big one. John and a few friends had taken her for dinner, passed around bottles of sparkling white while she tucked into veal. 76 was just another blip en route to the next milestone, which she levelly had reasoned was 80 or death. Given the reason for the trip she preferred not celebrating at all.

Pippah’s endurance began being tested the moment she arrived at baggage claim and found her suitcase had vanished, or at least failed to complete the trip as punctually as she. The day’s first little finger prick. A set of doors. A line. She read and reread the letter from the offices of Burrows & Corrado while she waited for an ambivalent customer service representative to provide the necessary forms. 

Sign here, please. 
Sigh there, please. 

Yes, we’ll do our best. So sorry for the inconvenience.

The cab she’d nearly fist-fought for to get away from JFK reeked of foul exhaust. The traffic crawled on slug-like until she’d missed the morning’s first appointment. By the time she climbed four flights of stairs to the filthy one-bedroom in a crumbling building under the subway in Astoria, Pippah’s bladder and midwestern confidence were already stretched to their limits. 

Using the key that had come in the mail Pippah opened the creaking door to apartment D7. The sound of her heels on uncarpeted floors as she carefully stepped around the space competed with the gurgling squeal of a radiator in the corner. So many boxes. Stained photographs. A brown couch and dead house plants. No one to come help her sort out the remaining mess. The cramped bathroom, which she used, had dark lesions from black mold. Resentment started gnawing at the morsels of her resolve, nibbling with persistence until she waved it aside. No time for this now. She checked her watch, looked around then headed for the door, locking the noxious smell of cat piss behind her as she exited.   

Four stops toward Manhattan on the N train--thank heaven for an elevated stretch of train, it’s little glimpse of sky--and five blocks by foot delivered Pippah at a faceless grey building next to an anonymous office park. Her breath made little vapor clouds as she checked and rechecked the address, again referring to the note from Burrows & Corrado. Inside, another line of people. She signed some papers, waited in a plastic chair and finally was called on. A girl with dark eyebrows behind the counter wished her happy birthday when Pippah passed over her driver’s license for identification. Pippah politely nodded and then the girl was gone, meandering into the maze of hallways and rooms half-visible from the waiting area. Pippah absently tapped the thumb of her right hand against the tip of each finger while she waited again. Pinky, ring, middle, index; pinky, ring, middle, index. 

Pinky.

Ring. 

Middle.

Index.

Resentment nibbling at her innards again, grief tagging along with it. She reflexively waved them both away when the counter girl returned. 

The girl with the dark brows produced an average-looking square box, wrapped in brown parchment paper and tied tightly down the middle with a piece of white string, placing it in front of Pippah.

“And I’m the only one?” Pippah asked from her side of the counter, afraid that putting hands on the box tied her to an invisible contract.

“According to this?” the the eyebrows replied, furrowed from behind their paperwork. “Yeah, that’s you." Then: "Sorry for ya loss, ma’am.”  

Feeling it improper to put the box in her purse and worse about carrying it around in the paper bag the eyebrows offered, Pippah chose to hold the package right out in the open, clutching it closer to her tiny chest as each brutal piece of day sped on. Subway to the city. Cab to the west side to meet with people at Goodwill. Traffic again downtown. Thousands of bodies milling around no matter where she went. Soon careless nudges from passersby or failures to find a cab were worming their way into her throat, growing and swelling into a stubborn lump that Pippah could not quite swallow. With every errand and errant stop she focused strength into the parcel, until by noon it had become both battery and burden. Three days more, just three days more, then this will be over.

It was 4:45PM by the time Pippah left the offices of Burrows & Corrado, fumbling out the door in an overwhelmed daze. She had not eaten yet, still hadn’t checked in at the hotel; her cell phone hadn’t signaled any arrival of the missing luggage. 4:45PM and still so much to do...where to go next, how to get there, what to do with the box? How to make a plan for tomorrow and the next day and the next... 

Selfish. Pippah stewing, heated straitjacket tightening around her. Selfish, this whole request. Latch the sleeves into their buckles. A final manipulation at the hands of a relative stranger.

A relative stranger. She rolled the phrase over in her head as she raced up Madison Avenue, searching for the E train which would finally take her to the hotel.  

She was still rolling the words and their relevance when she smashed full-speed into Saul Silverman just as he was rounding the corner at 50th Street and Madison. The blow knocked Pippah Allenson’s package to the ground, where after a few unsteady steps she very nearly joined it.

“Where the Hell’re you going?” Saul barked out to her hoarsely, greying eyebrows furrowed into an arched line of disdain. 


“I...,” Pippah began slowly, disoriented from the collision. She was still looking at concrete, shocked by the sudden impact. Pippah collected herself and stared up at the strange, tall man. Silvering hair, steely blue eyes, sloping Roman nose. What sounded like a New Jersey accent when he verbally accosted her. Another unfamiliar a face demanding unavailable answers. She suddenly noticed the wrapped box laying on the ground between them, brown parchment scraped back on the corners where it hit the pavement. Something about the paper, how it looked like skin, seeing it on filthy sidewalk knowing what was inside... 

“I don’t know!” she barked at the man in uncontrolled reply, voice gone jagged at the edges. Half the corner turned to watch its latest confrontation. “I don’t know, I don’t know, Idontknow, Idontknow!” Her voice cut off entirely as Pippah sunk down her knees, reaching for the box as she dissolved into the first tears she’d cried in thirty years. 

(to be continued)

SEO Optimized: Septuagenarious Long-Form Love

Have been spending less time on staccatos, more on flowery sentence botany. For the moment. Since there's snow, ice, no where to go and nothing else to do but wait for the landlord to click the heat on, I'm posting the intro to the ongoing, old-timey story of Saul and Pippah, one of those works of fiction penned between office hours and factual deadlines that will never see the light of day because no one reads books anymore unless they're by Franzen. It's about two wrinkled old lovies who begin a cross-country affair in their late 70s. 


It will be too long for some, not zeitgeist-y enough for most and is guaranteed to be despised by at least one cantankerous amateur literary critic in Reading, England, but while snow's falling I like to fantasize that long-form fiction will not be murdered off by the 140, that love and the meandering bits leading in and out of it won't be erased by SKINS.

Meet Saul. And Pippah. They are old. They are in love.

(Intro excerpt from "It Does Get Easier, It Seems")

Saul liked to imagine the start of their correspondence was simultaneous--that two pen tips touched down on papers miles apart at the exact same moment, each respective owner perfectly in synch. 


Pippah was more practical. She usually wrote in pencil.  

Saul and Pippah were prolific writers of love letters. Neither could ever recall any formal rulings on mail. It was understood that emails required more technical savvy than either was willing to develop. Text messages seemed both unromantic and unrelenting on aging thumbs. So soon after their first departing both started putting pen to paper, doing so with such regularity that letters began crossing paths en route from Idaho to New Jersey and back, landing daily in each mailbox like doves gone home to roost. 

Pippah never worried about what to do with Saul's notes. Left to her own devices by John's commitment to online poker, she could pass his squeaking chair parked in front of their sleek computer, the youngest item inanimate or otherwise in the entire aching house, with a dozen bits of correspondence taped to naked windsock breasts and he would never notice, if he managed to tear eyes from the incoming river of cards flowing on the screen. John never really had any curiosity about the details of his Pippah’s life--those which did not pertain directly to him, anyway. Pippah had ceased feeling alienated by this shortly after their honeymoon.  

Each afternoon after the mail arrived, regardless of John's household whereabouts, she separated Saul's latest letter from the bills and magazines and placed it next to a glass of juice. Once the rest had been sorted through appropriately, she settled down at the head of the kitchen table to calmly read his words, sipping juice and swallowing intimacy in full view of the world. Sometimes John would pass through looking for a snack or to answer their only telephone, but he never asked what Pippah was doing and she never volunteered commentary. When her reading was done she'd walk the carpeted path to the bedroom with Saul’s pages and accompanying envelopes, each slit open at the top with jagged efficiency, adding them to a pile kept neatly in their closet. After the first two dozen or so made it through her door Pippah began binding them in orderly six-inch stacks, each tied with a piece of ivory ribbon and placed in a designer shoebox. Over time the stacks doubled, tripled, quadrupled and then so on, until a romantic army of promises, missives and proclamations living in Chanel and Prada houses lined Pippah's top shelf.  There they rested, lazy sentries beautifully camouflaged, whispering their contents to dresses and dusty purses.

Her lover, however, did not have the similar luxury of privacy. Iris had married Saul with pure intentions, blind enthusiasm and enough conditioned cynicism to suspect her husband would falter in exactly the way he did, even if it happened years beyond when she'd have felt it really mattered. It may have been woman's intuition, or a keen awareness of her shortcomings. Maybe it was the kind of self-fulfilling prophecy one summons with years of subtle doubt. Regardless, she was suspicious by nature, forever combing the depths of his pockets and back of desk drawers for insight into her husband. Iris rarely unearthed more than receipts and forgotten newspaper articles, sometimes old postcards or photographs from friends. Four different times she spoiled her own birthday surprises and twice ruined anniversary presents. Once she came across pornography, holding the yellowing pages of a nubile form pulled from a men's magazine between her fingers, but the prints were so old and irrelevant by then that she labeled them benign, returning the nudes to their original homes after glaring at the girl a moment. She never found anything, in fact, that painted Saul as anything but a stand-up spouse and otherwise mundane man, a beige carpet sample lined up among her friends' patterned marital narratives. Still she kept on digging, indulging sick curiosity like others do small children.

Saul always knew, of course. He couldn't pinpoint how, exactly--it might have been when one closeted birthday gift was found resting askew, or when a Playboy centerfold was crinkled at her edges after he unearthed her--but after many years, traces of his wife's covert investigations transformed into a dull awareness that, though they would never discuss it, Iris did not trust him.

Knowing there was no box, pile, space or spot that would or could go undiscovered, Saul initially considered shredding each of Pippah's letters, eliminating the potential land mines from ever being laid. But as he held each scrawled page from her hands, some laced with the sort of sparse poetry only he would ever know Pippah Allenson to be capable of writing, he found himself unable to destroy them,  superstitious that with their burning some piece of her would die--that the softest parts of Pippah would turn to ash with his hard deconstruction.

One afternoon early in the affair a stack of ten letters grew into eleven, a number too great to continue hiding in the slim space between the rug and his night-stand's feet. With Iris in their garden Saul paced their bedroom furtively, wondering where to stow them before she came inside. He put his nervous head in his hands and hinged his legs over the far end of the bed, taking a moment to think. Raking gnarled fingers through thick, peppery hair, he stared from shoes to mattress and then back at the letters next to him, stomach twisted with anxiety about his paper mess. As he sat a sudden flash jumped in the corner of his eye--a little spot of sunlight reflecting on a tiny trail of zipper, peeking out where the bed's dust-ruffle had accidentally been pulled back to expose it. Pulling the ruffle back further with a fingertip, he found the zipper ran a flat equator around the entire length of bed. Once undone it exposed two interlocking sections of memory foam bedding, the pieces of cushioning he and Iris slept on every night. With a careful hand and eye the bed's entrails could be zipped back up cleanly, the zipper covered with the pale sheets and dust ruffle again. 

And so began Saul's practice of placing Pippah's letters within the depths of his marital bed, the one place his wife would never dream of looking. In between the memory foam papers hid like desperate fugitives, more gathering in hushed solemnity as each month passed by, until one day Iris and Saul Silverman slept on a firm foundation of years of Pippah's posts.