I came across C.W. in the park again. He waved me over from a bench were he sat in the form of a young man in an army uniform. He was ruddy-faced and mirroring the army of forty years or so ago—dress military wear, not the “in your face” GI Joe outfits the boys parade around in now.
He was holding a yellowed and wrinkled letter and his face was red as if he had been crying. In fact, I think he had.
“What’s the matter?” I said.
“Look at this.” He handed me the worn and stained page and I began to read.
I never wrote no letter in my life so don’t blame me for this one. I mean if it ain’t to good. Yore mama made me.