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

“He kept the small brass key tucked under the iron paperweight on his top bookshelf,” Clare said.

She reached into my trunk and touched the top envelope of the first stack, where a ten-cent airmail stamp bore a faded violet postmark from Ramstein Air Base dated August fourteen, two thousand nine.

“He checked the Main Street mailbox every afternoon at three o’clock, before his secretary came back from lunch,” she said.

“Fifteen years of postmarks,” I said.

“Every single one,” Clare said.