Letters from Romania
My father tells me they have lambs. His handwriting is tight and small, like swallows on a wire, and I almost hear the tiny scratch made by the tip of his heart. He says every day my mother gets farther away. He tells me the Bostonian shoes that I sent are nice but he can't wear them, his legs are swollen logs. I'm thinking, he'll probably keep them inside the silence of the old armoire, together with his death clothes.