Mail's in. I collect and open and tear and rip.
Today it's mostly junk, some bugs attached to the glue.
But there's also a small package-- post-marked from years ago.
Mystery ensues. I wonder and worry and ponder.
Should it be opened, or remain a time-capsule,
For someone else to discover?
Sometimes there's a terrible feeling that overcomes,
My bones and soul and heart rattle with fear,
For no reason other than an change in blood-flow.
I'm opening it. I'm opening it. It's opened,
And the mystery is solved.
It's a bundle of letters from my father, tied with an aged string.
Attached is a note from his wife, about how he has died, and she wished for me to have these.
About how he was sorry, or troubled, or insane-- didn't know any better.
After toying with the twine holding these memories, notes and letters, perhaps pictures addressed to me.
I light a match, and burn them in the furnace. It was going to be a cold night--
and this parcel would warm me, if only superficially.
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