In a plastic grocery sack
on the desk I’m trying to clear,
two red hanging files my mother
handed me on New Year’s Day.
They turn out to be filled with
all my letters to her from 17 to 51.
Scraps from notebooks, cutesy stationary,
a post card of Yosemite Falls.
I spend half an hour reading
samples of my younger self, then give up,
sighing and wishing I liked her better.