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 

and wait for light to shine on masks, decanters, 24-karat bracelets, rafts 

           retelling the story of El Dorado, 

gold forgotten in forgotten trunks meant for Malaga. In front of the museum, 

           leaves shivering on trees announce impending storms. 

Food vendors sell hot dogs and empanadas. My mother tears the envelope. 

           His letter, as brief as a butterfly's hours, 

scribbled with words I don't understand. The sheet of onionskin trembles 

           in my mother's hands. She reads in silence, in a hurry 

before taking lipstick from her purse, a mirror, and painting 

           her lips red. Then, she tears the letter up. 

In silence, without stopping to catch our breath, 

           we wait for the bus.