Nixie It began with a phone number. Then a grocery list. A postcard to a dead friend and then a long letter in the green hell of a long summer. With queer little geometrical figures in the margins. Then winter came with the monstrosity of a true artist, its snow didn't know whether to play Bach or Beethoven, its light in a light all its own. I called and called. I went shopping but the black diamonds downtown were not on sale, so I am writing to tell you the ring you wanted will have to wait, we are telling stories around the brazier, it is warm near the tripod and snug, the hour makes a soft music all its own, I wish more than anything you were here beside us, and not under the maple in Mr. Morioka's garden. I used to think everything had meaning-- and it does. Excerpted from Dunce by Mary Ruefle All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.
