Radiator Mail

I was reaching for a fallen sock behind the pipes

in my old bedroom at my mother’s house.

I found an envelope wedged against the wall,

coated in a fur of scorched, gray dust.

It’s an invitation to a wedding in June,

printed on cream paper with a silver foil border.

'We would be honored to have you there,' it says,

but the date was four years ago this Tuesday.

I know how the story ends—the house sold,

the yelling in the driveway, the lawyers,

and the way they don't speak his name anymore.

I held the paper and smelled the heated ink,

a message from a time when they were still brave,

arriving long after the fire had already

gone out and cooled into ash.