by Cheryl Vargas.
The legal size manilla envelope is too long to fit in the basket alongside my other folders, its size is as awkward as its contents. Inside are two long pieces of paper weightless, a sparrow’s feather.
I am pretty sure my brother’s death certificate can be shredded now. Five years is a long time to hold onto a useless date and cause.
It feels as if the ink has not completely dried on my mother’s document.
Loneliness is my father’s proper name. The envelope holds space enough for him. A paper trail, white and thin, a distant marker of surrender marching towards.