All in Letter

I loved to read your letters to Mary Ruth when you were alive and writing them. They were always the same, in ways – accounts of what the neighbors were doing, what you found at the grocery store, a trip out to the country for fresh fruit, how much jam you made that day, the health of your parents.

I don’t remember whose name came first or last. Just that it was sunny, so bright, I had to squint to make out the words Xeroxed on the page. The police had the original and never let it go.

He grabbed the whipped cream can from a server’s hand and swirled a white cloud onto my finger, licked it off. Did it until we were kissing in the corner, all luscious lips and cream.

my father began signing notes that he left for my mother with the initials nmwopsily at the end of the note. It made my mother smile but she always insisted that it didn’t mean anything and I got tired of asking what those initials meant.

The paper was a luscious linen with watermarks when held up to the light. My husband never called me dearest but he did when he put his pen to paper, his hand connected to his heart.