I mailed my memory to the post office.
Everything I could remember, I wrote it down.
It took me three years and four months.
To say all the birthdays and bad days that stayed.
Stuck somewhere where they’re not stuck anymore.
The mailman knocked on my front door.
To return the stained printer paper.
Tears formed in his eyes as he handed it back to me.
Did your mother really stab your stepson?
Did he survive?
Did you forgive her?
I couldn’t answer.
Everything’s there that I remember.
And there’s nothing there that I cannot.
