If I could, I would script on upper arm

The clerk at the bridge stamped my papers twice this morning and still would not let me through, because the date on the permit is one year out. I am writing this at the café across from the customs hut, on the back of the form, so forgive the creases. Mama's stove is cold in your kitchen, I know, because the Dimitrov boy told me so when I went to the gate. He looked at me the way people look at a dog that has been shut out in the rain.

Your letter came on Tuesday. You wrote that the lemon tree has finally fruited and that you have not picked a single one, because it would feel like taking something from me. Keep them. Hang them on the nail by the door where Papa used to keep his cap, and when I get through I will sit under that tree and peel every last one, even the sour ones.

I know what you will say about the lawyer. You will say I should have gone in the spring, and you are right, and I did not, and that is mine to carry. But I want you to have it plainly, in my own hand, so there is no question later. I would be standing beside you at the grave tomorrow if the river let me. It does not care what anybody wants.

Tell Father Stefan to hold the service until Sunday, and tell him I asked. Tell him the words are the only part of me that can cross without a stamp. If I could, I would be there in the wrong coat, singing too loudly, the way Papa liked. If I could, I would.