I sent a letter today. When I pushed my fingers up against the plastic red flag at the side of the letter mailbox, I saw the wasp's nest, hanging inside the expanse of the newspaper holder.

Forty-five minutes later, my father douses the wasp in boiling hot water and watches it fall, twitching, onto the sidewalk. We both stand in silence for a moment, and I point to the nest.
"You're not going to get rid of that too?" I ask.

He looks at me and shakes his head.
"Cruel," he says, "You are cruel."