Unfortunately, lacking a scanner, I can't include the actual letter. But I still think the poem stands by itself well enough. I'll add the letter to this post as soon as I can.

 ....Done!  (see below)


Typewritten

Aug 28 2012

A typewritten letter

my elderly parents

found, and sent.

Signed, but not read.

From my father’s father

on a long forgotten

rite of passage

to an adolescence boy.

He speaks

with the stiff formality

of a Victorian man.

His characteristic detachment,

in which my Aunt

was his “wife’s daughter,”

my brothers, the “other two.”

Proper names lost, no doubt

amongst the weighty matters

of his sharp legal mind.

How in a few paragraphs

his idiosyncratic manner

captures the man.

It becomes easier

to understand

my father’s parenting style,

not touchy-feely, or intensely engaged

like modern dads.

He worked hard

earned a living

provided.

Sheltered us

from the daily stress

and never strayed.

No rest

even on the 7th day.

This letter was saved.

Before the internet,

when everything seems cheapened

by easy access,

the promiscuity of the digital age.

By the illusion of posterity,

our deluded faith

in electronics.

Only 2 hard copies,

the secretary’s schooled hand

faithfully taking dictation.

The one-off font

of the typewriter’s mechanical arms,

striking hard, and soft

l’s and r’s

slightly raised.

Signed, but not read.

Yes, the usual clichés

about potential, the future,

a young man

finding his way in the world.

The detached formality

and stern manner

of a strong and silent man,

the no-nonsense patriarch.

Of the disciplined man of habit,

certain of the virtues of his age.

I’m afraid to say

that future is mostly behind me now.

I have probably fallen short.

He is long gone

but his words endure,

conferring on him

a kind of immortality

more robust

than memory.

A man of few words

chosen well.

The reassuring weight

of fine paper.

Still creamy, and stiff,

precisely creased.