letters
That is not the ghost of my father, sitting in my father’s chair—it’s my brother, though his hair is the same, too short and silver at the tips. My brother hasn’t looked at any of us since we noticed him sitting at the dining room table. He is writing a letter, concentrating on the sheet of unlined paper. The chandelier swings slowly back and forth. His head makes a shadow across the oak, across the creamy paper, across his left hand resting on the corner of the paper. My brother is not right-handed. My brother does not write letters.
