THE SENT ONE by Gerhard Frost
I remember being sent it made me ten feet tall.
How dignifying to walk in borrowed prestige down that winding road to the country store. I carried a note, not in my handwriting, of course, because I couldn’t write; but I could scribble.
I never scribbled on that note.
And I was careful, so careful lest it fall in the dirt. I was content just to carry it. To be sent is an exercise in being third First, there’s the sender; second, the one to whom you’re sent; and then, you, the sent one, Any two without the other won’t do.