The Old Scribe
I found the letter in my father’s desk,
While sorting through his things after he died.
The writing was a style called “Romanesque”—
With letters shaped unusually wide.
My grieving heart was heavy, wrapped in gloom,
Alone, within his home in Baltimore.
A single desk lamp lit the shadowed room
As I removed the letter from the drawer.
I’ve heard it said, “You can’t go home, again.”
So true—and yet the job had to be done.
With words inscribed as with a broad-nibbed pen,
The envelope was addressed “To My Son.”
Inside I found a letter, frayed and worn,
My grandfather had written years ago.
“My dearest Son,” it said, “When you were born
“I held you in my arms, then watched you grow
“Into the man you are today. Well done!
“You made me proud!” Then, underneath, a few
Words written by my Dad to me, “My Son,
“I readdress this note: From me to you.”
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