Grandma's Letters

The first one looked like a schoolgirl, with a blushing envelope wrapped in script and innoncence, and asked how my studies were going at that liberal school, if there were any openly homosexual people there, cautioned that I should be careful because I might catch it and that God was watching.

The second came in time for my birthday, with balloon stickers and arsenic-dotted-I's and said that my father was dating a lovely publicist that he had "known" from his office ten years ago when my mom was pregnant with me and thank goodness she had gotten that abortion and not married her soapstar boyfriend, so she was available when my father looked her up on the computer.

The third was like a lawyer, brief, formal and on strict lined paper and briefed me that dad and Pamela's trip to Vegas had resulted in rings, but without the champagne, because Pamela's sponsor didn't think it was a good idea.

The fourth was a foil snowman card that said Pamela had fit right in at the family Christmas party, that the kids were already calling her auntie, that Uncle Mark had burned the ham, that everyone asked about my sister and I, and that she was so glad my father finally married someone who deserved him.

The fifth was enclosed in a taped-up perfume box that contained my birthday gift, a gold and glass cross filled with "absolutely-not-an-imitation" sand from Galilee, and a Jesus card that said my father was doing well except for the occasional marital bickering, which was to be expected, and that the doctors were able to close Pamela's wrists before her heart's work was wasted and that she was definitely not going to drink any more after the holidays.

The sixth was a lint-fluffy Easter card that said my dad had moved into the guest room because there was a lock on that door and that Pamela had moved into a sterile room with no door at all, at least until she could be left alone, and it had the name and number of a hospital scrawled at the bottom.

The seventh was a postcard from Napa with a winery on the front that resembled my father's, and it said that she felt she had to send it, as it looked so much like daddy's winery at home, and maybe I could put it on the fridge, or maybe I could call and tell him about it, since he's living alone again and Pamela moved into an apartment across town.

The eighth was a plain, white notecard with no writing, which protected a funeral program and a photo of Pamela and my father nibbling from each other's glasses on their honeymoon, and there was a scrap of stationary behind the picture that said died April 8th.

P.S. Why haven't you married that nice boy from Los Angeles yet?