[43] Things Left Undone, Maureen Eppstein

The postmark date was 1938, an envelope with German stamps, the letter in careful
English from some distant relative she’d never met. Newly widowed then and struggling,
an infant on her hip, she could not put her mind around big words like “sponsorship
request” and “immigrate,” big meaning in the words “dire situation.” She never learned
what happened to that family. Decades later, when she told me that this unanswered plea was the one regret of her life, I had no words to comfort her. We sat in solemn silence, imagining
the rattle of a crowded cattle train.