FIVE TEAR-ENCRUSTED LETTERS

Dear Mrs. Bib,

We regret to inform you, your sweet young son, Waffle, is dead.

Sincerely,

Coach Powers

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Dear Mrs. Bib,

We wanted you to have these objects. They belonged to Waffle. He kept them stashed in a school locker. They include a bright spandex one-piece; six to twelve consumed energy bar wrappers; and a minature dog leash, with matching tags, inscribed Pagan.

Sincerely,

Waffle’s Teammates

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Dear Mrs. Bib,

I am Principal at Waffle’s school. The outpouring of emotion has been staggering. On behalf of Coach Powers and Waffle’s teammates, please accept our deepest apologies. Waffle was a bright star in this school’s athletic firmanent. He was cut down, alas, too soon. I remember the first day I met your son. I introduced myself as the new principal. “Hi, I’m Waffle.” He held in his hand empty shells, coated with sweat (perhaps saliva).
Once again, my deepest tears and gratitude.

Breastily,

The Principal

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Dear Mrs. Bib,

You should hear this coming from someone who loved Waffle as much as you. I was Waffle’s girlfriend. The white canopy over Waffle’s bed, yes, that was something I gave him six months ago. Waffle always wanted to live out a dream of being on the safari, and I, explaining to him that he would not like Africa or the Tropics due to all the bugs, asked me then to make him a bug-net tent for his bed. And so I did. Look at me I’m rambling.

Grief, Mrs. Bib, is a shaggy dog. It plops down in your lap with sad droopy eyes. The better part of crying though is living. Still, I remember Waffle’s good-nature disposition. He really knew how to throw the ball, though. And he could dribble and bounce and skip and jump. Waffle laughed. Waffle helped small persons and round persons. He laughed a lot and was kind to strangers.

Accept this tribute, if you will.

Carlota Murphy

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Dear Mrs. Bib,

In Peru, the custom is to bring the mourning mother to the end of a great hall, and then shout to the river gods, “Wait!” But we are not there. No great lawns wait for us.

What to say? What hasn’t already been said? These passing days, weeks, months, have felt like years—have felt like a century that is both too long and too short for any of us.

At this time, your prayers are in our heart, with Waffle, who will always have a special place, where he can come, and sit, and share his tales and memories in the quiet bloody valves and chambers inside each one of us.

Shortridge High School lost a great young little man. They lost a star forward, and a power shot. They lost next year’s Varsity captain. Alas, little Waffle has come home to a bigger sky, to play on a bigger field, and please a greater team, of angels and saints. Verily.

Don’t ask why. Just pray for endorphins. As our Lord says: Faith is the largest weapon.

Best wishes,

Father Tuck

amusing to watch a person one likes being made fun of by others.

here you have judith butler of uc berkeley's rhetoric department.

Poet's Press Conference