A GRANDMOTHER’S LETTERS
She figures I’m now old enough
to be in the same room
as ancient love-letters.
These are thin and yellow,
stuck together by age.
“He flew bomber missions,”
she tells me.
That catches my attention.
I’ve just come inside
from dropping bombs
on the invisible enemy
lurking in her flower beds.
She peels one missive slowly
like stripping skin
from her wrinkled hands.
The writing’s blotchy and faded.
It’s signed by someone dead.
He was a pilot in the war,
she adds,
shot down over France.
The envelope is proof.
A foreign stamp dangles
from one corner,
shot down by time,
yet to hit the ground.
