Today I found them
by chance and re-read them:
he tells me
it’s because of the drink that
he is in jail and that he is
going to stop when he gets
released and he is never
going to drink again and
that he misses me and asks
me to look after ma:
he writes
he is sorry and regretful
and remorseful and vows
repeatedly he’s going to
change his life,
but he
didn’t and that life killed
him by alcohol and drugs,
“misadventure”:
as I read your letters I
cried, softly, and then I
re-placed them back into
the envelopes,
closing darkness on
your voice once again,
but I see you
writing these words,
genuine
scared
honest
hopeful
dreaming
and it all came to
nothing, no promises
or wishes were kept,
but what I know
is that you loved me
best you could
and I loved you
the only way
I knew,
we shared that,
at least.
