The Letters My Mother Never Delivered

What My Brother Said

I called Lyle on a Sunday and read him the four line letter over the phone, the one addressed to our mother, the one that only asked her to tell Winona that somebody wrote.

He was quiet for a while. Then he said: she is dead, Shannon.

I said I know that.

He said what exactly do you think you are going to fix.

And I said I do not think I am going to fix anything, and he said good, because you cannot, and that woman is forty eight years old now and has a whole life and does not need a stranger showing up with a box to make herself feel better.

I want to be fair to my brother. That is not a stupid thing to say. That is the strongest argument against everything I did next, and it came from the only other person alive who slept in that house, and he was not wrong that some of what I wanted was for me.

But here is what I said back, and it is the only clever thing I have ever said to my brother in my life.

I said: she asked. Every Sunday for fourteen months, standing in that front hall with her hands in her coat pockets, she asked. And she never once got an answer that was true. I am not bringing her a box. I am bringing her the answer.

He did not say anything for a minute. Then he said do not do it by phone.