Finding a Box of Family Letters by Dana Gioia
The dead say little in their lettersthey haven't said before.We find no secrets, and yethow different every sentence soundsheard across the years. My father breaks my heartsimply by being so young and handsome.He's half my age, with jet-black hair.Look at him in his navy uniformgrinning beside his dive-bomber. Come back, Dad! I want to shout.He says he misses all of us(though I haven't yet been born).He writes from places I never knew he saw,and everyone he mentions now is dead. There is a large, long photographcurled like a diploma—a banquet sixty years ago.My parents sit uncomfortablyamong tables of dark-suited strangers.The mildewed paper reeks of regret. I wonder what song the band was playing,just out of frame, as the photographerarranged your smiles. A waltz? A foxtrot?Get out there on the floor and dance! You don't have forever. What does it cost to send a postcardto the underworld? I'll buya penny stamp from World War IIand mail it downtown at the old post officejust as the courthouse clock strikes twelve. Surely the ghost of some postal workerstill makes his nightly rounds, his routinetoo tedious for him to notice when it ended.He works so slowly he moves back in timecarrying our dead letters to their lost addresses. It's silly to get sentimental.The dead have moved on. So should we.But isn't it equally simple-minded to missthe special expertise of the departedin clarifying our long-term plans? They never let us forget that the linebetween them and us is only temporary.Get out there and dance! the letters shoutadding, Love always. Can't wait to get home! And soon we will be. See you there.
DanaGioia #Poetry
