Two

When I first found the newspaper photograph of the pretending-to-fish Santas, I thought it was just Bourne.

Then I realized it was Bourne of the past.

Now I realize it is Bourne of the future, Bourne to come, the river—and everything—back where it belongs.

Very, very carefully, I cut around the edges with a utility knife, cutting the photograph from the article and caption and cutting through the glue and cutting through the extra-thick scrapbook paper the glue has glued the photograph onto. I feel bad about defacing library materials, but a scrapbook is not officially a book, and the back of a newspaper clipping is more newspaper whereas the back of this scrapbook page is blank for writing on.

I leave the Santa-postcard in the middle of the kitchen table for Mama to find when she wakes up in the morning and comes downstairs to start baking yellow things.

It would be nice to give her a nice surprise. But we do not know what will happen. So in case it is a not-nice surprise or one that takes a long time to come, I do not want her to worry. She has already worried enough.

Dear Mama,

It is okay. We are taking care of it.

One, Two, Three