From 1947

by Cara Hall

She hands me a

box full of love—daily notes

in chronological order

from

first met to let’s get

married.

And innocent teenage love

my generation overlooks.

Grandma describes each one,

touches them with

recollecting wrinkled

fingertips,

perhaps wishing

they

had breath.

They smell personal like

Ron Jo’s antiques.

She leaves me alone with them,

with him.

So I try to uncover

the reason why Mom says I am

so much like him.

And in every Dear Jean

he writes,

I get closer.