My friend, Mrs March

Mrs March retells me the story about the first time she got behind the wheel and successfully gained a mailbox along the way. My insides ached from deep laughter. She had probably told me this story a million times, but I hoped she would tell it a million more. Mrs March lived on the other side of town of me. I never went outside when visiting her, she told me once that it would be safer to sell myself, whatever that meant. She brought out a beautiful display of cookies, each decorated with strings of icing sugar and beads of sprinkles. She set them down rather roughly and gazed upon me curiously. I held out my hands to Mrs March, but she refused to take them. Instead, she shoves a delicate cookie in my direction. I shrug, “but Mrs March, we have not said grace yet.” She spits harshly and yells something I cannot understand. She throws the cookie plate against the wall and it shatters loudly. I couldn’t understand why she was so angry. I recklessly searched for any possibility. Relieved, I find my answer. “Mrs March, don’t worry. I will pray for more cookies. “


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