The Silverfish

In the bottom drawer, beneath old guarantees,I find my father's last letter,its envelope freckled with pale abrasions,the gum along the flap eaten through.

A silverfish slips from the fold,a quick stroke of mercury,three fine hairs trailing behindas it disappears beneath the lining.

I remember the careful capitals of my name,his habit of underlining datesas though they might otherwise escape us.Three pages in the small, compressed handthat made every sentence look economical.

I read them once, folded them twiceand put them where I would not have to answer.

Now whole words have gone,small islands of daylightopening between his sentences.

I can still make out I never meantand, further down, you must understand,but nothing of what lay between.

I hold the pages against the window,turning them slowly towards the light.Beneath the drawer, something movesthrough the dust of his remaining words.