The Letter
The Letter
Kevin Davis 2024
When I was barely nineteen, I came home,
and my mother placed a letter in my hand.
Her eyes were wet; my father’s hands were shaking—
I tore it open before I could even understand.
The heading struck me cold: “Office of the President.”
No whim, no warmth, just verdict in its tone.
What could Richard Milhous Nixon want with me,
and what return did I owe to him alone?
His name was stamped as heavy as the seal,
a sentence carried in its rigid weight.
I’d known it was coming since the lottery was drawn—
my number had matched its waiting fate.
The letter began with its mocking word: “Greetings,”
so pleasant a mask for what it concealed.
But the body carried no welcome at all,
only orders that could not be repealed.
I let it fall, the paper limp from my hand,
my chest thundering like a startled drum.
My father bent, picked it up, and asked—
“Do you want it back, son?”
I forced a half-smile, though my breath was thin.
“How long before I have to go?
Should I think about Canada?” I joked,
though my parents’ faces told me no.
They held me close, their voices breaking,
and my father whispered through his sigh:
“Ten days, son. Ten short days—
enough for farewells, and time to say goodbye.”
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