It’s her hair
and her stare from the other side
from where none of us have ever stared.
Her mother – maybe her name is Anna –
sends the postcard to “Bernice”
the hair and the stare touching her.

“Bernice
What do you think
of my little doll,” the maybe-Anna
scribbles on the back of the postcard,
basking in that hair and stare
“Come to see us Soon. Don’t know
when we will get [out] there
would love to come
Kiss all the babies for me.”

 Like life
the penciled lines fade.
A corner of the post card is torn away.
Mother’s signature is dissolved by time.
But written at an angle
buttressing the rest of the scribbled lines
is a plea or perhaps a need:
“Write to me Some Time.”