I only met your father once but my father was a long time co-worker of his—Sam Merriweather, you may have heard his name. He died several years ago. He always said James Porter was one of the nicest and most honest people he ever met and I thought you would like to know that. He said it was especially amazing given all that he had gone through. People say he was a fine gentleman and I thought you would like to know that. I know he will be missed.

Sincerely,

Everett Merriweather

Mother’s Day 1965

IOU-

I will not hit Becca.

will feed dog and play

will not say what you sed don’t say

Jeff Wishart

Lately, I wake and wonder if the people who moved into our old house have figured out that you can’t open that one cabinet if the oven door is ajar, or that there is a hairline crack in the window over the stairs that we chose to leave because it’s the original window, the glass thick and wavy. I forgot to tell them how they might think there’s a burst pipe but it is probably only the sun hitting that one part of the roof, the snowmelt filling the gutter with a runoff so powerful no bush below has ever managed to survive. Frank begs me to stop. “Please stop,” he says. “I can’t think about it right now. I do not want to think about any of it right now.”

Harvey

Harvey would be scared at night if he didn’t have Peggy. She is fat and warm and she snores and sometimes her paws move like she’s chasing something, like she will chase something if she needs to, and Harvey wakes her up to tell her to do it but sometimes Harvey is the only one awake and so he whispers in Peggy’s ear to wake up, just to make sure she will do it when he needs her to. Her ear stinks a little in a good way, like how her neck smells under her collar, kind of like the school cafeteria and those big rolls on spaghetti day. His teacher held one up to the principal and said, “Do you think we feed these children enough starch? And does this sauce really count as a vegetable? Really?”