november · with a steadying hand · sent: no

to my father, who will not read it

two years on

papa —

they say one is supposed to keep talking to the dead, and i have been doing it badly. mostly in the car. mostly when something needs to be fixed and i remember you knew how.

the kettle you mended is still mended.

i went to the river last sunday. the bench is still there. someone has scratched a name into it that is not yours, but the carving is the right depth.

i wanted to tell you i am keeping the small promises. i am leaving the larger ones for later, when i am stronger.

— your daughter,

the elder one

not sent because, of course, there is nowhere to send it. it was read aloud, once, at the kitchen window, and then folded into the drawer where the other letters live.

father dream · father the grandfather's kettle bench to a brother