I write often to you. Looking at
my handwriting, I admit my letters
look like the meager scratches
I made in the third grade, and
that year seems closer than
the distance between us.

I write that I miss your homemade
gorditas. Those eighth inch
thick tortillas that you grilled until
they puffed like pita bread. I miss smelling
them as you browned them
on the comal. I miss the extra garlic
you added to the pico de gallo. Gladly,
I’d endure the fire of your salsa.

I miss holding your hand as we said
grace over Sunday supper, and a stillness
settled like air over a river before
an evening rain. Now darkness gathers
in the kitchen, and in mid-afternoon,
I turn on the lights.

Thinking about the span dividing us,
I set the letter on the table,
and ask: what will I do with this
note book of letters? What carrier
could deliver the last words of my love?
Will I ever find you in the vastness
of eternity that is larger than
all the known and unknown galaxies?