Icicle


We were not going to write for ourselves today, but stick only to our employer’s need, but then we heard our wife talking to her sister.

Two nights ago, about dinner time, a knock came on our front door. Nearly dark, I looked through the peephole and saw the top of our neighbor boy’s, Chase, head.

Always polite, Chase asked if he could have the three-foot-long icicle dangling from the corner of our roof edge.

“Sure,” I said, “As long as you don’t stab yourself, your brother, or someone else with it.”

Chase chuckled, “I won’t,” as I broke it off and handed it to him.

“Thank you,” he said.

Before he could leave the front porch, I asked, “So, whatcha gonna do with it.”

“Eat it,” he smiled.

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