a dozen x's and o's

they are handwritten

letters

from my grandmother to my father.

all stuffed inside

a yellow

cigar box.

the ink

from a heavy

cartridge pen

has spilled at certain points,

making black

dried pools

of ink

at the end of each line.

it's hard to read,

cursive and old school,

but it's full of gossip.

who's marrying who,

who drinks too much,

who doesn't have a job,

who's still

in the Navy.

she says she'll be up in 

the fall,

not knowing that she'll have

died before then.

she signs it with

love, your adoring momma,

and with a flourish of 

a dozen x's

and o's

beside it.