By Post
Feb 27 2008


There is a letter in my mailbox.
Not a bill, my name misspelled in the see-through window.
Nor a flyer, stuffed-in.

A creamy white envelope
with a stamp she carefully chose,
addressed to me
in dark green ink
I instantly recognize.

Inside are neatly numbered pages
crisply folded in three.
The penmanship is exquisite, old school.
And I imagine quill pens with inkwells.
Or a serious little girl at a wooden desk,
two tight braids
tongue between her teeth
obediently repeating drills.

It begins with a sincere “My dearest . . .”
and concludes “As always, yours”;
heartfelt,
but proper for a lady.
There is a genteel intimacy
in these letters she shaped for me,
in the smooth friction of ink
on the rich white surface.
And this paper, which she held by hand.
And the idiosyncratic slant
— still cocking her head just so
bending close.

I will keep it with the others
in the top desk drawer.
An artefact
with heft and gravitas.
An object
I can re-visit and touch.
This hand-written letter,
an indelible record of love.