and stared.
“There you are,” she said.
To Marin.
To me.
Maybe to several generations at once.
Inside, we had exactly the Saturday I wanted.
Soup beans.
Cornbread.
A soap opera June narrated like a horse race.
Later, she asked Marin to bring her sewing box.
A battered old tin I remembered from childhood.
She told her to look underneath the thread.
There they were.
Every Christmas card I had mailed.
Rubber-banded together.
The edges softened from being read.
My daughter’s whole life held together under buttons and thread.
Hidden.
