Lost in Transit
by K.B. Sluss
It started with a thumb. Tiny and pale, it came in a slim, padded envelope that fit through the mail slot in my front door. A week later, I received a toe--the big one, possibly for a right foot. A week after that, the pinkie finger of a left hand, no bigger than a kidney bean. Each item was made to my precise specifications and guaranteed one-of-a-kind. I laid out my growing collection on the table in my workroom and spent countless hours trying to surmise the eventual results from those small clues.
During the fourth week I received an ear; pink with curving cartilage like a strange seashell, a souvenir gathered from an exotic beach. Next came an eye with a blue topaz iris, the color reminding me of the waters at the ocean where I spent the summers of my own childhood.
Three months passed before the packages ceased to fit through my mail slot. Then they arrived via a parcel service that required proof of my signature upon delivery. A heart first, then a liver, a spleen, the enigmatic appendix. A foot, a spine, an elbow. I cherished them all, and in my workroom the previously myriad possibilities began to coalesce into something certain and finite.