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This writing was accepted for publication in the 108 page perfect-bound ISSN# / ISBN# issue/book “i am not alone” Down in the Dirt, v182 (the April 2021 Issue) Order the paperback book:

Order this writing that appears in the one-of-a-kind anthology Excerpts from the Plague Years the Down in the Dirt Jan.-April 2021 issues collection book		get the 420 page Jan.-April 2021 Down in the Dirt 6" x 9" ISBN# perfect-bound paperback book:

No Questions

Thomas Elson

    You hate this part.
    Waiting for a phone call from the man who wrote the letter.
    You knew what the letter said before you opened it. You would have no questions. No need for clarification. Nevertheless, you need to hear the inflection in his voice, his intonation, pauses and hesitations before you make any decisions.
    You wait, and, from the bedroom window, watch as a solitary tumbleweed careens into the fence on the other side of the river and is ensnared in its wire. As a child you helped your father wrestle clusters of brittle, prickly tumbleweeds from fence wires and burn them.
    The phone rings. It’s him.
    After the phone call, you assemble a cucumber and butter sandwich, as your father did for you at times like this, and place it upon a glass table on the circular balcony overlooking the river. The glint of the early morning sun reflects scarlet and warms your face while you search for that solitary tumbleweed entangled in the fence wire.
    You cup your hand over the biopsy site. Just as you thought, there were no questions.

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