ten years and . . .
upon cleaning my bedroom at home i find a postcard, pink and edges folded. florida, it says,
letters white and bolded. flamingo prominently stares on one leg, yellowwhite eye, clothed in pink, long neck curving half a heart.
it is in the shelf under my harmonica. it is in the drawer that is never clean, packed and crammed shut with small notes collected from years. bookmarks with toads and rabbits, homemade envelopes, messages from the past on folded yellow construction paper, playing cards from carnival cruise line with a ship that crests glassy grey water as if it were rooted to the sand below the sea it skims.
january 1995, it says.
Dear Sara,
Nana and I are enjoying our vacation in Florida
We have not gone swimming in the Gulf.
We have seen many colorful birds but no Flamingos. We hear you
are singing in the choir. I wish we could
attend the service
and see you. Love
Papa
and above lines with the purpose of address: there is my name with my mother's maiden name following it but scratched out, my middle name placed atop. there is no stamp. there is a sentence announcing printing in the u.s.a., gulfstream card co., miami fl. 33166. there is blue ink, and There were my memories.
this holiday at home has been really something, and for the first time in years i'm not ready for it to end. in this room with tiny colored lights and soft white lamps which so closely contains art and books and books and halfused tubes of paint and old skirts touched by grandmother's fingers, letting out the hems as my legs grew. letters from boys (and books) and photographs of niagara falls, of the mountains and of my parents' lives in a sentimental black and white world. parents and grandparents, your-aged, living in a country at war.
if i remember anything, if i hold anything close and want to spill anything from these dusty scraps of cloth and canvas, and the heartbeat of this town where all these kids, your-aged, collect themselves once a year these days, it is this:
take hold while we can.
(and, so i don't forget: i love you.)
letters white and bolded. flamingo prominently stares on one leg, yellowwhite eye, clothed in pink, long neck curving half a heart.
it is in the shelf under my harmonica. it is in the drawer that is never clean, packed and crammed shut with small notes collected from years. bookmarks with toads and rabbits, homemade envelopes, messages from the past on folded yellow construction paper, playing cards from carnival cruise line with a ship that crests glassy grey water as if it were rooted to the sand below the sea it skims.
january 1995, it says.
Dear Sara,
Nana and I are enjoying our vacation in Florida
We have not gone swimming in the Gulf.
We have seen many colorful birds but no Flamingos. We hear you
are singing in the choir. I wish we could
attend the service
and see you. Love
Papa
and above lines with the purpose of address: there is my name with my mother's maiden name following it but scratched out, my middle name placed atop. there is no stamp. there is a sentence announcing printing in the u.s.a., gulfstream card co., miami fl. 33166. there is blue ink, and There were my memories.
this holiday at home has been really something, and for the first time in years i'm not ready for it to end. in this room with tiny colored lights and soft white lamps which so closely contains art and books and books and halfused tubes of paint and old skirts touched by grandmother's fingers, letting out the hems as my legs grew. letters from boys (and books) and photographs of niagara falls, of the mountains and of my parents' lives in a sentimental black and white world. parents and grandparents, your-aged, living in a country at war.
if i remember anything, if i hold anything close and want to spill anything from these dusty scraps of cloth and canvas, and the heartbeat of this town where all these kids, your-aged, collect themselves once a year these days, it is this:
take hold while we can.
(and, so i don't forget: i love you.)