Picturesque XV
I am not upset, or happy, unfortunately; the impact of this passage may differ as a result. Ah well; I feel the need to write, to express the feelings I do experience, however, so perhaps things will balance out.
One of the most innocent daily routines one could ever partake upon has become a terror. Opening or even touching your mail can kill you. I do not bring our mail to the table anymore because of this. Call me paranoid; I do not mind. Who knows? Perhaps I am, but it will be a while before I touch the day’s mail first.
And yet, oddly enough, when the first few cases of anthrax sprang up I was not worried. The cases were on the East Coast. I live on the West Coast. Three thousand miles is a fairly safe distance, no?
And all through this time my aunt, who lives in New Jersey, has been sending us pictures of tuna cans doing everyday human things (a la Eleanor Antin’s 100 Boots). But now there is a problem. We did not receive mail from her for a few days. She called us to say why: her post office was closed for three days because it was discovered that one of the first letters with anthrax happened to be processed at her office. So while she has been sending these photos, our own chances of exposure increased. Thank God no one in my family has shown any signs.
There is another reason why I don’t touch the mail. My mother, seeing an abnormal bump on her forehead, when to Kaiser Halloween night to get it checked out. It was nothing, thank God once again, but if my own mother is taking such steps, what is to say that I will not act similar?
