My father wrote letters on an old typewriter
That he didn’t keep. I found them,
Straining in the confines of
An open-mouthed baggie,
And wondered who had kept them.
Unfolded delicately, because they were like
Finding autumn leaves in a winter landscape,
Their stories were different
From the ones he told my siblings and me.
His crush was not my mother.
It was some girl named Cindy, or Sandy,
With long amber hair, in an age
When his hair wasn’t white.
Honestly I don’t remember the name of that woman,
(And probably, neither does he)
Nor what color hair she might have had.
I know just the shock of a Kim’s lack, and
Surprise at the youth my old man
My letters are in the ether,
But my diaries are of this world,
And I wonder if my children will be shocked
To learn of a vivid, youngster’s life before them,
Before their father, when my eyes were wide
With endless possibilities for lovers and dreams.