Only in a Letter

Poetry by Emalisa Rose

I start with a ‘sorry”

Today is a snow day.

A good day to clear clutter;
a good day to write letters.

Letters, hand written, in bold
fonts of cursive, old fashioned
in sentiment.

I pick up the pen, attempting
to share with you. It’s been
several years now.

What began once, as miniscule
brewed misunderstanding,
eclipsing to silence, then barely
a word, from one to the other.

Not sure how to start, what shall
I say, sister dear.

I start with “I’m sorry.”


In a white wicker box

She kept them for decades;
top shelf in the closet, though
she is shrinking now, inching
up on the step ladder, retrieving
the white wicker box, where
they laid down their legacy.

The box with the red and white
heart ribbon, wrapping its
content; letters they penned with
both joy and attrition, through
the lean and the harvest years.

I tell her they died much too early.
She replied “It is always too early
when the good ones pass on.”

She told me one day I’d be privy
to know, understand and untangle
the tale of my mom, and my dad
and the angst of their story.

I touch tender the ribbon, getting
ready to read through their timeline,
then refrain, still uncertain, if I want to
read something, they didn’t want written.