Fetching

Dear Jack,

I enjoy climbing hills with you, really I do. It’s so much fun running with the empty pail swinging by its handle with each step, and the fetching of the water from the well is also pleasurable for me, watching your biceps and triceps flex as you turn the hoist to raise the bucket. All of this is great fun.

It’s the trip down the hill that I have a problem with—a bucket full of water should be carried carefully so as not to spill it. You never listen, always take off running with the same result—the heavy bucket throws you off-balance, sloshing everywhere, tossing you ass-over-teakettle to the ground for yet another concussion, and the MRIs are getting ominous. It’s bad enough that I always trip over you when I come running after you, tumbling down in a clumsy heap; I certainly do not intend to spend my life taking care of an invalid who’s concussed himself into a vegetable. You’ll be fetching those pails of water solo from here on out—I doubt contrary Mary will volunteer to accompany you.

Sincerely,

Jill