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My Father's Letter
Hope Maxwell Snyder
We find it in the post office box downtown. In a short skirt, refusing to bend,
my mother hands me the key.
On my knees, I study the light blue envelope bordered in red-and-blue stripes,
stamped with American words, messy handwriting.
At the gold museum across the street, people stand in line.
For twenty pesos they walk into a dark room
retelling the story of El Dorado,
gold forgotten in forgotten trunks meant for Malaga. In front of the museum,
His letter, as brief as a butterfly's hours,
in my mother's hands. She reads in silence, in a hurry
her lips red. Then, she tears the letter up.
In silence, without stopping to catch our breath,
we wait for the bus.
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