DEAR MARCIE Julia McCoy Marcie’s mother was gone. Dead. Doornail. Marcie saw her in the coin. Put her hand on the mahogany. Tossed dirt into the hole. And yet, she was still sending her postcards. Marcie found the irst in the heel of her boot, the paper worn and ink running from sweat. Greetings From Des Moines, it said on the front, bubble letters illed with landmarks. Dear Marcie, Here in Des Moines. Spent most of the day at the botanical gardens. Wasn’t my jam. The dome overhead keeps everything alive even during winter. Didn’t feel real. Ran out of money for bus fair, but remembered people leave change in fountains. Anyway, sorry for leaving. I’ll keep in touch. Love, Mom She told Dziadzia immediately. That was his rule before, too. When her mom came for sudden weekend road trips or midday school pickups, when she ripped the stable fabric of Marcie’s life, she must tell him. “Dziadzia.” She held out the card. “Mom sent me a postcard.” He held the card to the light and squinted, though she knew he struggled with written English. She waited for him to ask before she read it out loud. His chest rattled. “She never let go easily.” “Should I write her back?” “I suppose. But keep your hopes low.” Marcie sat at the table that night, postcard facedown. It occurred to her, even though her mother’s body was decomposing in the earth, her soul may not know that it was gone. It would be mercy to tell her. Dear Mom, Thanks for the letter. I’d like to see the botanical gardens. I wouldn’t mind the
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