Souvenirs ---------- "I'll make a meal of him," Melissa said, while opening the envelope, "Some knee, last week, a slice of tongue and lip. His head is lost without the bits he sent to me." Melissa sags a bit below her chin and waits. The silent phone sits on its hook, its jangled ting-a-ling has become thin. She reads his letter, stores it in a book. "If he sends another eye, how will he see?" Melissa said. "I have the right to know." She puts his toe upon the sill with other souvenirs, just out of sight. Karen Tellefsen kat2@mindspring.com