eBay says it’s shipped
the gift I bought for Ella.
I discover old friends
have passed away
via Facebook. My wife
PM’s me from the family room,
and my sons rarely call: it’s
all about texting emoticons
these days. To feel grounded
I sometimes drag out old shoeboxes
(yes, really, shoeboxes) of Mom
or Dad’s letters. Seeing their handwriting
reaches parts of me the wired world
cannot. I sense the mood of the words
from written gesture, color of ink, a word
scratched out, underlined three times.
As I read I hear their voices in my head.
With the immediacy and evanescence
of today’s connection, what shoebox
will my sons open tomorrow? How will
they fit the sound of my voice into their
hearts? What of me will reach them
once my number is undialable, my server