The Handwriting Was the Same

I was looking for a charger cord. I found

the tag instead—red border, ink gone thin.

From Santa. Her handwriting, the round

cramped s she's always used. I've seen it in

grocery lists, birthday cards, the notes

she leaves on counters when she goes to bed.

The same slant, same pressure. Those

small letters, everywhere. Then I had read

the tag at ten years old, the paper still

in my hands, the gift already open,

and understood. Not a thrill—

more like a small hinge, quietly broken

and re-hung differently. Her s.

Her slant. The pressure of the pen.

Not a revelation—more like: yes.

Like something filing itself in again.

I held the tag for a while.

Put it back.

The cord was still somewhere in the bin.

From Santa. Her pen.