And She Writes Back

David, she writes, I think of you often. She encloses a photo, coal-black eyes wistfully lowered, coal-black curls bouncing as always. Do you remember swimming at the river? she writes. And the walks in the valley? And lunch after chapel? He does, he does, he does. And do you ever think of me? she writes. I do, he thinks, I do. I do.

It is far too easy to telephone America. And such a miracle that all those seemingly random numbers mean her. I do, he says across the Atlantic, or

– 40 –

is it under the Atlantic, or high to a satellite above the Atlantic and down to her in Detroit. Miraculously across the miles he tells her he does, oh he does, yes he does. I have never stopped loving you, he says. You are the one for me, he says, oh Megan, come back over the ocean to me.

David’s mother smiles as she knits. She’s knitting in nylon for her grand-
daughter, though she hates it. No one has told her a thing, but she knows.
Oh, she knows. Knit one, purl one, oh Megan he won’t live long, then you’ll come back home across the ocean. To my David. To me.