April 3, 2001
My mother’s final correspondence was a postcard
dated six days before her death and received
the Monday after—the way postcards sometimes arrive
after the traveler has returned. This one
is from Graceland (a place I know she’d never been)—
the photo of Elvis, half in shadow, half bright.
Clipped to the card is a scrap of yellow paper on which I had transcribed—
from a phone call weeks after her death—my father’s words:
Sometimes alcohol attacks the heart—
for him, a singular admission; and, too,
that he’d known about the bottles—Years ago,
he said. I found them years ago. Like me,
had pulled away the books on the shelves in her study,
to find them there—tucked by her own hand—
like something nearly alive, waiting for her return.
My father and I—each departing from that room—
saying nothing to anyone. Her words
on the card are cheerful—niceties about my recent visit—
ending with: I have to cut back. She means
from Campus Ministry—a committee from which she’s just resigned.
The blue ink of her fountain pen is a random mix
of dark strokes and light—as if my mother,
noticing the fading, corrected with a firmer hand—
giving the appearance of a small battle transpiring.
