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I picture you during long days at the plant. Your hair is the same caramel-color as mine and you have your grandma's eyes -- blue, clear, and with a hard honesty that can call the truth from the fattest liar. You're thin, and a little wistful. Like you never quite get all you hunger for, on the table or in life. That's as far as I let myself get before I turn back to the work that pays for my freedom. I don't want to think of all else that
could be: beatings and ice cold rooms, big men with bigger egos, hopelessness. So much can turn a young girl, and you would be 15. The age I was when you were born.
A letter sits in front of me, begging for a reply. Not sure how you found me, but I guess I’m happy for the little information in the return address. It's written in a young girl's handwriting, full of harmless crushes and crisp floral sheets. Vermont. Maple syrup is all I know of Vermont. Maple syrup and teddy bears. I hope you have plenty of both.
My pa was a mean man, little angel. Adoption or abortion, my mother had said with those stabbing eyes, irises swirled by tears. My legs were black and blue from pa's belt, with a raised red welt along the top of my thigh that made the lady doctor ask what was happening at home. I fell against a dresser, I told her. What else could I say? And how could I bring you there? You were so tiny. You'd have gotten lost in all that hate.
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