I.

Logically, this morning
I should have gone back
to the archives first (on Fridays
they close early, around lunch)
and only then to the post office
to pick up a parcel.

The dusty folders were waiting
for me to uncover who
had informed on my grandfather
and created the black hole
of those five years of his life.
My father was thirteen.

Instead, my feet moved down another street
and I saw the shape they would draw
on the map in my mind.

I half-awaited a grand event, walking past
the bus stop, the tourist agency, the florist stand.

Too late to change my mind.
I had filled out the paperwork
and made phone calls though
my father had said it wasn’t
worth the trouble but was I
prepared.

 

II.

Logically, this morning I should
have gone back to the archives
first (on Fridays they close
early, around lunch) and only then
to the post office to pick up the parcel.

The parcel could wait until later—
the notice might even be a mistake.
The line might be shorter in the afternoon.

But something propelled me past
the bus stop, the tourist agency, the florist stand.

Right before I entered
my slice of the revolving door,
I saw something clearer.
A wall of tiny locked boxes.
X gets his mail here and X
is never up before noon.
I hadn’t seen him since
he’d come back.

 

III.

With only one worker,
the line at the post office wrapped
around the counter.
If I had fooled myself,
there were limits to this sort of thing.

I would have to come back.

I retraced my steps without my parcel,
and headed the other direction,
into the dim archives. I settled
at my desk, switched on the lamp.

The informant with the most notes
was named X the 8th.

My father was thirteen then.
What if this is why
he can never say what he feels,
what if this is why
it takes me so long to realize
what I feel, what if this is why
X happened at all.

The attendant likes me
because I never take breaks.
She comes over to whisper,
“It’s time.”
I will have to come back.