Fifteen Years After My Father Changed the Locks, He Seated Me at Table Twenty-Two

Inside the bag sat a stack of forty-three envelopes held together by three thick rubber bands.

I touched the top envelope.

The airmail border was red and blue, faded along the edges, and bore a postmark from Ramstein Air Base dated eleven years ago.

Across the front, stamped in Gerald’s distinctive red ink, was a rectangular block marked REFUSED.

“He kept them in the bottom right drawer of his oak desk on Main Street,” Clare said.

“The drawer with the brass lock,” I said.