A Letter for You

There are so many things I want to tell you,

now you are gone I am so full of news—

 

the wild costumes I wore in a surreal play,

you’d have loved the crushed red velvet

and laughed at my naughty maid’s outfit,

I would tell you about my last trip to Alaska

and all the stories I struggle to write,

how I spent Valentine’s Day, as usual, in black

but fell asleep before watching The Terminator

all the way through, my yearly ritual,

how I am singing scales each morning

and torment my cats with my off-key tunes,

how I despair of my parents ever finding a home

and worry about my father, he’s slowed down

so much, and how proud I am of my mother

going back to work, and how I marvel that things

seem to move so slowly, change so quickly—

 

sometimes I am the little girl playing in your garden,

sometimes I am the older girl pruning your roses,

sometimes I am the woman who is writing this letter—

 

to you, you who will never write back

in glorious run-on sentences of gossip, politics,

and memories all mixed together, in a hand

increasingly unreadable, in letters that are shorter

and shorter and, finally, no more.

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