How strange
these many years beyond their deaths
to come upon my parents' wartime letters
back and forth across the North Atlantic
this one from October '44
three months past my first birthday
to my father stationed somewhere outside London
my mother sends her love and all the pride she feels
watching this child
the first fruit of their union
running amock ( already) among rocks and flowers
loving his little cart despite its broken wheel
and folded in the single page she sent
a lock not of her own but of her one-year-old's
blond baby hair
a tuft transported as it were across the years
too late for me to thank them once again
for this great gift
my human incarnation
for all the years of nurture
love and family life
and their forgiveness as they faced
their disappointment
inevitable given the high hopes
and dreams they had for me
I hold the hair between my thumb and fingers
imagining my mother in her twenties
a radiant bride
my father in his uniform
dashing and slim
his rifle hung behind him
eyes full of youth's intensity
and feel my heart
and throat constrict once more
with a son's love
and with a hint of sorrow
for all I left unsaid and that I'd give
the world to tell them now