Rachel Marsom-Richmond

Delaware

Come December, I will mail you a Christmas package with a jar of snow. I'll seal it tight to capture the noises of this thin air breeze—the blasting and chugging of trains. I've never been more comforted by the sounds of technology, you'll sleep better when you hear the music again. I'll wrap the jar in bubble wrap, gently place it in a cooler of dry ice. I'll write a warning on the outside of the box with a Sharpie: Do not touch the dry ice with bare hands, wear a pair of gloves to protect yourself. Almost 5 years ago you let me wear the gloves that smelled like your car when I drove up North and saw my first snow. Traveled through Virginia, Pennsylvania, New York, Massachusetts, but somehow missing Delaware—the state you ran away to. My friend Neesha says there's no such place as Delaware. It doesn't exist, you've been lying to me for all these years, making up a place and cities that you've never been to. I wondered why you couldn't take a photograph of your house or send me brochures from the museums. I never questioned your authority, but what kind of state has killed their music? My package may never make it across the country, heading off to an imaginary land, a mirage like Oz, but I've bought the box and packing materials just in case. The post office will be busy that time of year, but you're worth the wait in line.

CP

Rachel Marsom-Richmond has a recent M.F.A. Her writing has appeared in Camel Saloon, Three Line Poetry and others. She was nominated for a 2011 Pushcart Prize. She teaches composition, makes sock monkeys, and dreams of moving back to the mountains of North Carolina.  For more information visit her at  www.rachelm.com