Lost Post Card

All these sweaters make me feel creepy. Like an undead witch carcass is dangling just overhead, gasping and plotting. That’s ridiculous. Your Gammy made you those sweaters. To keep you. What? To keep you warm, I meant. Where is Gammy now? Is she still on that 5-Day Coastal Pacific Excursion on board the Norwegian Sun? She’s been away since before the last frost. Gammy is in the insane asylum. What? Gammy is on that 5-Day Coastal Pacific Excursion on board the Norwegian Sun that you mentioned. She sent you a post card! I haven’t seen this post card. Is it here? It might be behind the television. I looked behind the television. It might be under the refrigerator. I looked under the refrigerator. Why did you look under the refrigerator? I was hoping to find your cigarettes. It might be with Sarah’s toys. I looked with Sarah’s toys, and alls I found was a note from Gammy. It was etched into the blade of a nineteenth-century machete, and it said “fammi uscire da questa merda manicomio. Il cibo è pessimo e non hanno cavo.” When is Chopped on? This isn’t my show. Why do we have an antique machete with a note from Gammy on it? That’s the post card I was talking about. Some post card! You can harvest sugarcane with it! Did you find my cigarettes? I looked up her note on Google Translate and it says that she’s in an insane asylum. She wants us to get her out. Why? You need more sweaters to complain about? No, I like Gammy. We should spring her. So, we took the antique machete and leapt out of our comfortable chairs and kicked the front door open and sank knee deep into the mud in the front yard and slogged through the mud for hours and finally reached the van with the handicap plates. We started up the van and I knocked the machete against the roof racks on purpose. We took off west on 5th St toward N Mayfield Ave, turned left onto the Interstate 215 S ramp, merged onto I-215 S, took the exit onto I-10 E toward Redlands/Indio, took the California St exit, turned right onto California St, turned left onto W Redlands Blvd and then into the driveway of the Inland Psychiatric Medical Group. We opened the trunk and tied about a dozen bedsheets together and threw the string of bedsheets up into the air until one end caught on the sill of an open window about 6 stories up, which knocked over a potted begonia, and the sound of broken earthenware woke Gammy. She came to the window in her flowered shift. “Fammi uscire da questa merda manicomio. Il cibo è pessimo e non hanno cavo.” she said calmly. “What’s that, Gammy?” “Fammi uscire da questa merda manicomio. Il cibo è pessimo e non hanno cavo.” I looked at Ma. What is she saying? I don’t know. Climb up and ask her again. We don’t have a phone? Just go! We’re missing my show!! So I climbed up the bedsheets with the machete thrust into the tie of my velour bathrobe. Gammy! I can’t climb any higher. What do you want? “Fammi uscire da questa merda manicomio. Il cibo è pessimo e non hanno cavo.” she said, ask she lowered another creepy sweater to me. I climbed back down, and we drove back to the house. I called and got Gammy a pizza and ordered her a Netflix subscription. The undead witch carcass dangled overhead, gasping and plotting.