The Unexpected Letter

A few days ago, I received a letter in the mail addressed to me, the me I have never forgotten, the me before I took my husband's last name. On the return address I read the name of a distant uncle I rarely ever see or speak to even though we live just a few miles apart. In the envelope, I found an old black and white picture.

On the back of the photo, I saw my grandmother's signature and a note detailing where the picture was taken and the date. My grandmother, my father's mother, died in 2001 at the age of 94. My father died shortly after in 2006 at the age of 75. Seeing her writing next to his signature (F.R.O.) on the back of that very old and faded photograph brought tremendous sadness to my heart. My body trembled as I gazed on my father's face. It was impossible for me to hold back the tears and so I allowed them to flow freely.

A tiny note, half the size of a business card, accompanied the photograph. My uncle must have found the picture rummaging through his drawers, a shoe box or perhaps even an old photo album. Or maybe someone from the island sent him the photo. Who knows...

The note had a poignant and coded message that he had for some strange and unknown reason felt a need to share with me. The English translation reads something like this

In the inscrutable designs of providence, time is the best sculptor.

signed Turkey

Why did he sign it "Turkey?" Well, it was my nickname for him when I was younger. When he arrived from Cuba in 1980, he had such an insatiable appetite for turkey and ham that he made himself sick one day. His life on the island had been so difficult and his tall skinny body craved everything and anything he had not eaten for years. And so, his nickname stuck. The day of my father's funeral, he stood by my side and made a point to mention how he had never forgotten all my father had done for him and how there was nothing that would keep him from standing by my father's casket and seeing him one last time.

The gratitude was well deserved. For almost one year, my mother and father had slept on a mattress on the floor of my brother's room so my uncle and his wife could have their own room. My father wanted to help them save enough money so they could move into their own place some day. Helping the family meant giving up our rooms, beds, closets any other of our modest comforts...this was my father's way. Any ill feelings I carried from the past were soon erased the moment my uncle spoke those words of gratitude.

New Orleans, Louisiana 1969

My father, my baby brother and me at the zoo.