Most were more than fifty years old.
On the top envelope, written in faded blue ink, were four words.
For Gustav. Please forgive me.
The handwriting was my mother’s.
But the name signed at the bottom was not hers.
It was Mara.
And suddenly the garden was no longer about vegetables.
PART 2 – The Name Beneath the Soil
Dad did not explain the letters that morning.
That would have been easier.
Instead he carried the metal box into the kitchen, set it on the table and made coffee.
My father had always treated emotional catastrophe as something improved by boiling water.
I sat across from him.
The box rested between us.
“Who was Mara?”
Dad measured coffee grounds.
“Someone we knew.”
“We?”
“Your mother and me.”
“Why did Mom sign Mara’s name?”
He stopped.
Only for a second.
Then he poured the water.
“Because Mara was her name.”
I stared at him.
