Those spacious months when we lived
continents apart, pens were back in,
our letters made days more bearable.
Once you wrote to me using a sheet
from your 70s childhood paper pad
with a purple flower garland border.
You said the last letter you wrote on it
was to Santa for something impossible.
Grown-up you asked a new tall order
that we might live together again.
Behind you lay the poltergeists of gifts
you never got, but this was granted.
Now we live together in tired evenings
but our work is another country.