grandmother's letters
sent to my father,
in the last year of her life.
i see how much she loved
to write.
the flow of it all,
the stories,
she had to get out
by
the gliding of her hand
in old school
cursive.
each sentence a juicy
bite of a sweet
peach,
but some sour long
the way as well.
black gossip and complaining,
though always ending
on a sunny note,
i love you my dear boy,
my son, my life.
followed by a dozen
x's and o's.
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