A frenzy for letters. (Prose Poem.)

If nothing else, L’Affaire Aristophil is arguably the Frenchiest of all financial scandals. The country has a singular reverence for books and writers, reflected in statues of great authors that dot Paris, and one of the largest national archives in the world. It’s hard to imagine another place on earth where a frenzy could be whipped up over the personal letters of Voltaire or autographed scores by Mozart.

David Segal. NYT. 

After the divorce, I wrote my children hundreds of letters. Probably thousands of them. Stamps only cost a quarter back then.

Who can't afford a quarter?

I'd write two or three each day.

After all, there were eight kids.

They lived in Utah.

I lived in Iowa.

Then I lived in Thailand.

And then in Oklahoma.

But they always stayed in Utah.

Until they went to North Dakota.

That was an ugly mistake.

One I never forgave Amy for.

North Dakota is deceptively flat and determinedly cold.

People get frozen in time there by the dozens each winter.

When they thaw out they are never the same again.

But somehow my kids survived North Dakota and now they live all over the place.

Utah.

Virginia.

Hawaii.

Texas.

Minnesota.

But none of them live in North Dakota.

I rest my case.

Twenty years after the divorce my kids and I reunited briefly for a photograph that appeared in the Daily Herald. I forget

why the newspaper wanted it.

That's when they gave me back all the letters

I wrote to them over the years.

There were postcards and aerograms and regular

stamped envelopes with type-written letters

inside.

There were so many that I had to buy two footlockers

at Walmart to put them in --

cheap cardboard things they were, too.

I didn't ask why they gave them all back to me.

I think they were embarrassed. 

Because they never answered any of them.

I've arranged all those letters

by date and location

and by who wrote them.

I've put them all in plastic slips.

Several of them are in frames, hanging

on my living room wall.

My kids went through hell

once I was gone.

(Although admittedly they would have

probably gone through just as much hell

if I had stuck around.)

So I'm thinking at least one of them

will turn their trauma into an amazing

success

in entertainment, finance, or politics.

Then those letters are gonna be worth something.

So I insured them for several million dollars.

And had an auction catalog printed up.

If only one of them turns out to be 

a mass murderer . . . 

my fortune is made.