Five days after leaving some words of literary invitation at Fort Chivalry, I returned. In the interim, rain had fallen and wind had blown.
The fort had new accents: an empty beer bottle, roof lattice, log chairs, more crab shells and sand dollars.
The notebook paper was still there, as was the Keno pencil I left behind for visitors to write with.
Someone did. Actually, two people. Someone had responded to my request for an oath to the fort and written: “I come to the sea to breathe and pledge to always appreciate her gifts.”
Someone else left behind an illustrated poem (pictured here) that was written on a mini notepad (brought by the writer), perforated on the left side. (I love perforations on paper! I love the word perforate! Note to self: write the true story of the woman who broke up with me because I didn’t tear perforations off the handwritten love letters I wrote her. Write the first draft of this on perforated paper. Send draft to woman.)
There are stark clues in this perforated note. I am thinking like a detective now. What can we deduce from this note? Reading a hundred mystery/crime/detective novels the past year has sharpened my powers of observation.
What do these lines, the penmanship, the punctuation, the illustration, tell you?
For one thing, the writer got “loose” right, not “lose.” Spellcheckers never catch that.
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