“This letter that she sent, it has no return address.”

I place the parchment on the counter with the worn envelope next to it.

My father sighs,

“I don’t know what that means,

now can you pour me another drink.”

I turn to the cabinet and mix the order from memory. Vodka, with a splash of cranberry.

I look down at the stanger’s handwriting on the counter, it’s similar to my own.

A scribbled mind on paper staining the soft paper canvas.

Every word intentional,  just no intention on receiving a response.

“Who is she to think that I wanted this?”

My father sips his poison cocktail

“I don’t know what you want me to say.”

So he puts his drink down and walks away. The shadows of two people,

sitting on the kitchen counter.

Lifetimes apart.