My mother's letters to my father.

by Chloe Pancho

I. December 6th, 2004

I remember the night,

You, rubbing the hoof of my foot

Our new-born, sucking on my right bosom

The three of us are laying on the mattress

That I grew up on, as you tell me that

I deserve more.

You offered to swim across the ocean

For me

In which you described the States

As a gold mine waiting to be quarried

With your hands itching to become dirtied.

I hope your hands are a black as night, my darling.

II. June 24th, 2006

The week before you left

I witnessed you

Hatch down a dozen mango trees

With the universes dullest of blades

In your calloused hands

Scaling a school of fish large enough

To feed the size of our village

The week before that.

You had saved me one fish that day

Grazed upon its scaley stomach, the sweet blade

Delicately twisting into the creatures soul,

One by one, you scooped out

its innards followed by its gills

And though it was tiny and though it was grotesque

With the same hard hands,

You offered me its heart

“From me, to you” you said.

I keep that fishes heart in the pocket

Of my cheek, so I will always remember

What your affection tasted like.

III. May 31st, 2008

When I have trouble sleeping at night

I imagine you

Still crouching at the end of my bed

Counting the ribs of our baby,

Smiling up at me as you say that

She still has twelve. A perfect set.

I count the ribs on the left side

Of her chest when she is asleep.

I can only bare to count up to

The number six.

IV. May 11th, 2009

Today marks another year

We have been together, yet apart

You send me a letter as a gift—

Inside are two plane tickets.

V. August 22nd, 2009

The world has finally given us permission

And my heart cannot wait to see you on

The other side of these large yellow and white wings

I promised to introduce you once again

To our daughter, who has reached her fifth year of life

To show you that not only has our Love remained

But grown.

We are the perfect set,

The whole fish.