A Letter for November

A letter arrived every November addressed to a house demolished before I was born. My father, the postmaster, placed it in the dead-letter drawer without opening it.

When he died, I inherited the drawer and found twenty letters. All were empty except the newest. Inside was a photograph of our post office, with Father standing at the door.

I was standing beside him in the photograph, wearing the black coat I had bought for his funeral. On the back he had written, “There is room for one more.”