Cursive

The letter I found was bone-yellow, blue
ink crusted grey on flimsy paper. Dear Uncle,
wrote his niece: we are well, we are taking kindly
to farm life. Away from the city, the children
are thriving. I let them play in the fields
with no fear they might get lost or run
over by speeding cars. My eldest boy goes
fishing with his father on weekends. They bring
back fish still thrashing in the pails. We hope
someday you will be blessed with children of
your own—

And in the last paragraph she asks about me,
ghost child of a publicly nameable father, child
of my mother’s hidden sister: little solemn one
in photographs the color of old maps, clutching
a spray of flowers and a doll. Some things,
even unknown, are true; some things lend
shade to the length of a life.

 

In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.

Series Navigation← <em>Nuthatch calls to nuthatch, wren to wren—</em>

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