December 6, 2004
Dear Mr. Bush,
I hope you didn't try to call my house tonight, because the phone had been in use for almost four hours straight, calling family and friends to share the news from today's ultrasound. The old cordless phone was beeping in low-battery protest as Janice and I converted our dreams--a boy, believe it or not--into little electrical pulses that shot out across the country and into the ears of those we love the most. It's a draining process, packing that much emotion, wonder, and excitement into such a tiny phone cord, and once we were through we were both exhausted, but oddly wired, and so we took the dog for a walk around the neighborhood to try and calm ourselves enough for sleep.
The air was strange for early December--spring-like and humid without that normal hint of the biting cold to come that usually hovers in the wind this time of year--and the ground was slick from the misty rain that's been falling for most of the day. But we walked and we laughed, sharing small jokes about the son floating inside Janice's belly, and we nodded hello to neighbors--the old woman sweeping leaves off her porch, the muslims sharing a smoke outside the mosque down the street--and we felt satisfied with the knowlege that the world is full of hidden miracles.
Yours,
Dan
I hope you didn't try to call my house tonight, because the phone had been in use for almost four hours straight, calling family and friends to share the news from today's ultrasound. The old cordless phone was beeping in low-battery protest as Janice and I converted our dreams--a boy, believe it or not--into little electrical pulses that shot out across the country and into the ears of those we love the most. It's a draining process, packing that much emotion, wonder, and excitement into such a tiny phone cord, and once we were through we were both exhausted, but oddly wired, and so we took the dog for a walk around the neighborhood to try and calm ourselves enough for sleep.
The air was strange for early December--spring-like and humid without that normal hint of the biting cold to come that usually hovers in the wind this time of year--and the ground was slick from the misty rain that's been falling for most of the day. But we walked and we laughed, sharing small jokes about the son floating inside Janice's belly, and we nodded hello to neighbors--the old woman sweeping leaves off her porch, the muslims sharing a smoke outside the mosque down the street--and we felt satisfied with the knowlege that the world is full of hidden miracles.
Yours,
Dan
posted by Sinker at 10:59 PM
2 Comments:
it takes a woman to make a man too, dearie.
No kidding, huh? I thought it was quite obvious that this letter's closing was a joke. However, it would appear as if a few readers don't share the same sardonic sense of humor that I do, and since it was a throwaway line, I threw it away. Also, I changed "tiny miracles" to "hidden miracles" because off the repetition from last week's "tiny freedoms" --Dan
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