Post by paintedmusic on May 31, 2008 21:14:58 GMT -5
[The best apart about original fictions is... no disclaimer! LoL.]
summary: Eagerly awaiting your silhouette to walk in through the door and put this broken family back together again.
All right, folks, I need corrections and brutal honesty here. This is an English assignment I have due in a couple of weeks, so I need y'all to tell me what I'm doing wrong with these letters, okay? Sorry... I didn't introduce this properly. Let me try again:
This is a series of letters -- ten of them -- written from a boy seven years of age. One letter per year is written, and the boy's writing matures with his age as well, so don't worry about those typos; they aren't accidental. Though some might be, so if you find one that seems like it shouldn't be there please let me know.
The only exposition you won't necessarily be given in the letters themselves is the fact that Benny is writing to his older brother. That's all.
Letter #1, age 7:
I am writing this
letter to you on:
January 13, 2008
Please get it soon
Dear Brian,
At 4:26 yesterday afternoon I was at the kitchen table, coloring a picture I drawed of you, me, Simon, an’ Mom. I know what time it was ‘cuz we just learned how to tell time in school, an’ there’s that clock we got hanging over the stove. Someone knocked on the door, but Mom says I’m not ’lowed to open the door for strangers. ‘Sides, Mom answered it anyway. I tried to listen to Mom an’ the stranger talking ‘cuz grown ups always talk ‘bout important stuff in real quiet voices. A few minutes later, the door closed; an’ all of a sudden, I heard Mom crying. She was crying so, so hard, s’if she skinned her knee on the floor. Mom almost never cries; you’ve seen her—almost never. She wasn’t even crying when she called the police on us a few months before you left ‘cuz she thinked we was lost.
I slipped off my chair an’ peeked into the living room. Not seeing me, she ran into her bedroom an’ shut the door. By the time six o’ clock comed, she was still shut up in her room; an’ I wondered how come she needed so much privacy ‘cuz of one little stranger at the door.
Before you left, I ‘member you telled me not to give Mom too much grief (whatever that means) an’ not to worry: you’d be back soon. Even though it always drove me berserk when you did it, you ruffled my hair an’ telled me to “hold down the fort” while you were gone. Well, Mom let me build a fort that night an’ even let me sleep in it; but she telled me to take it down the next morning. She explained that that’s not what you meant by “holding down the fort.” If she was wrong, I’m sorry I couldn’t keep it built ‘till you got back.
Well, I’m doing pretty good in school just like you always wanted. In a million years I’d never forget what you telled me: getting good grades will give me bigger chances for stuff, an’ getting more chances is real helpful in life. They help you get a good job, which’ll get you money, which’ll mean you don’t hafta live in a ugly, rundown building like where we do now. (Don’t worry, I never telled Mom what I really thinked of this crummy, old place ‘cuz I knew you wouldn’t want me to.)
To me math was always the worstest, boringest subject in the whole wide world. It’s even worse than getting yelled at by Miss Callistow. ‘Member how you telled me to just nod an’ smile to make her stop her scream-‘till-I’m-purple-in-the-face yelling? An’ that eventually she’d give up on screaming at me an’ not do it again? Well, guess what… it worked! The day after you said g’bye to us, Mom called the school to tell the principal ‘bout you leaving. I couldn’t figure out why ‘cuz it’s not like you still goed to school by that time, so why would they wanna know? But I definitely couldn’t complain ‘cuz ever since then Miss Callistow—an’ other teachers, too—started being super duper nice to me. Even grown-ups I never meeted before smiled at me when they passed by in the halls an’ sometimes said a chirpy, “Hello,” that was just as fakely nice as the smile. They didn’t know I realized, an’ I never telled them.
You always used to try to get me into liking math ‘cuz it was your favorite subject (I still don’t get why). When you left, I promised myself to do real good in math; an’ you wanna know what? On the last test we got back, I got a ninety-five an’ a sticker on top that said, “WELL DONE!” in bright, blue letters.
Since you goed away, I haven’t failed a single test. Even Mom was proud that my grades turned so good so quick, an’ Simon joked that maybe you should stay away for longer if this was what happened when you weren’t here. (Don’t worry: even when you come back, I promise to still be smart in school.) Mom’s face looked almost like a bruise when he said that. First her cheeks got so white she looked like a ghost; then red; an’ then purple like a wrinkly, old prune. She yelled at him to “go to his room an’ never, ever come out!” She didn’t mean to sound that mad, I think; she was just real upset. I think she missed you more than Simon or I ever even thinked. After he left, muttering something under his breath, hands shoved into his pockets, Mom started to cry.
Before you left, the only time I saw Mom cry was when Dad ditched us, an’ I hardly ‘membered that anyway. I got kinda nervous, seeing her face all red an’ puffy like it got that first time she cried. But the person who usually comforted me when I was scared wasn’t there anymore; you were already long gone, on some dumb airplane ride to some dumb place real far away that had the strangest way of spelling its name. A ‘Q’ without a ‘U’ to come after it. Miss Callistow always said the letter ‘Q’ had to have a ‘U’ after it, but I-R-A-Q ends just like that, no ‘U’ anywhere in the word at all.
A couple months after you left, I got bored of waiting and asked Mom, “When’s he coming ho-ome?”
Usually, when I whine, she sends me to my room for a time-out; but time-out; but this time she didn’t. She just sat down hard on her bed, head buried in her hands (I think to hide more tears, which seemed to come so much easier with you gone), an’ whispered – so quiet I could barely hear her, “I don’t know, honey. I just don’t know.”
I tiptoed out of the room real quiet after that; an’ a few minutes later, when I pressed my ear against her bedroom door, I could hear her crying to herself behind it.
After that I was pretty careful not to say things to Mom to make her cry, but sometimes she’d get all teary-eyed for just no reason! What was I supposed to say to make her stop crying? I tried all the things she used to use on me whenever I was sad. I telled her, “Don’t worry, Mom; it’ll all be OK.” I even hugged her, an’ she always used to smile when we gave her big bear hugs. ‘Member? Well, that doesn’t work at all anymore; in fact, it just seems to make her cry even harder an’ louder each an’ every time.
Eventually, after a few months passed, I gave up trying to make her stop being so sad an’ just made sure to steer clear of her bedroom whenever I heard her crying. Slowly, she stopped just bursting into tears all the time (like Mrs. McKenzie’s new baby—did you know she was pregnant?); but she also didn’t smile much anymore either. It was like she was always sad, always missing you. Don’t get me wrong, I miss you like crazy, too; but even though you were practically my best friend, even I don’t think ‘bout you every second of every day.
Simon comed home less an’ less, an’ I started to feel more an’ more alone with Mom spending so much time locked in her room. It used to be the five of us: you, me, Simon, Mom, an’ Dad. Then, Dad ditched us (an’ I still don’t get why ‘cuz he promised to always love us). Then, of course, you had to get up an’ leave. You said it was ‘cuz it was your job to “serve our country,” but isn’t our family more important?
Then Mom started to pull away from us, so it’s like she left, too. It dropped from five to two in just a few years, an’ I hoped at least Simon’d stay with me ‘cuz he was the only one left. But he turned fifteen five months after you left us, an’ I guess he started to think he was too cool to hang out with me anymore. An’ then there was just one left; there was only me.
Before he stopped coming home at night, I’d hear the door creak open real late. Mom always thinked I was asleep by the time Simon got home, but I could never sleep in a room with three beds if I was all alone. An’ since your bed would be empty for a while, I’d stay up ‘till Simon crept into bed.
I’d hear them yelling in the living room, an’ then Mom’d always hiss at Simon to “stop talking so loud or you’ll wake your brother.” I never telled Mom that I heard every single word anyway, an’—even though Simon knew that I couldn’t sleep without him there—he never let my secret slip either.
He started to smell like smoke a lot, just like Dad used to before he left. I barely ‘member Dad an’ can’t ‘member his smile or his voice at all, but I wouldn’t forget the smell of him in a million years. It stunk up the whole house like there was a fire or something.
Mom yelled at Simon even more when he comed home like that, said he’d end up just like his good-for-nothing dad. She’s right, though; Dad was good for nothing, not even good for tucking us into bed at night. That was always Mom’s job… but she stopped tucking me when she started to hide in her room all day an’ all night.
I counted down the days ‘till you could come back. You telled me twelve months; that’s what you said, an’ I planned to hold you to it. I had it all marked down on my calendar. (Today was the three-months-left date.) Sometimes, when I had nothing to do, I’d sit on my bed an’ wonder: did you change at all? I know I did; everyone says so. The doctor said I grew lots of inches an’ that you’d prob’ly barely even recognize me the next time you saw me.
I hope he was wrong; I wouldn’t want you not to know who I am when you come home.
When he said that, I started to cry, just a little bit; but I wiped away my tears before he saw them. I didn’t want him to think I was a baby or nothin’. I just missed you is all. I only cried for you once after that, even though I really missed you lots of the time, ’specially when I’d go over to Nicholas’s house an’ see his big brother. He was the same age you were, so how come he didn’t also have to go “serve our country” same as you?
I asked you that the day you left, ‘member? You said it was your choice an’ not something you had to do, but then I got real mad at you an’ screamed a lot an’ slammed the door in your face. I still get mad when I think that you decided to just leave your family when you promised you’d never be like Dad an’ ditch us, but I’m sorry for screaming. I didn’t really mean to say, “I hate you.” I don’t, not really. I love you; I was just angry, that’s all.
I know you prob’ly already forgived me then ‘cuz you never get mad, but I still feel guilty ‘bout it sometimes. It was the last thing I said to you before you left, so when you get home I promise the first words out of my mouth will be, “I love you, Brian.”
I’ll hug you so hard that your head’ll pop off, an’ we’ll have to screw it back on again. An’ then I’ll drag you into the apartment an’ show you our room… I’ll show you how it’s exactly the same as when you left, except that it’s a little cleaner ‘cuz you wanted me to keep it neat for Mom. I left your bed just the way it was so that you’d ‘member it when you got back home.
‘Member ‘bout that stranger I telled you ‘bout at the beginning of this letter? Well, after Mom was in her room forever ‘bout it, she finally comed out. Her cheeks were red an’ splotchy s’if she’d just rubbed them real hard with a towel; an’ her eyes were wet. At first I thinked she taked a shower; but her hair was still hanging in that messy ponytail she was wearing before, an’ it was dry, unlike her cheeks. She looked right past me an’ sat down on the couch hard, squeezing her eyes shut an’ moving her lips. But I think maybe her voice got broke or something because I didn’t hear any words come out.
It taked me a while to realize she was actually whispering something. Your name: Brian, Brian, Brian—over an’ over. Brian, Brian, Brian. BrianBrianBrianBrian…
I guess she really misses you loads an’ loads. I miss you, too, Brian, so much.
Later that day Mom said that I wouldn’t get another chance to speak to you for a long time, so I better write down whatever I planned on saying to you right here. That’s why I’m writing this letter. She said that you won’t be coming home when you promised you would but that it’s not your fault. I guess if it’s not your fault, then I can’t be mad at you, can I? ‘Sides, I won’t make the same mistake twice: I’m not gonna say something I’ll regret when I dunno when I’ll see you again.
That was the second time I cried for you, Brian. I cried so hard that I think I finally ran out of tears in the end. An’ when Simon comed home this afternoon, Mom didn’t even yell at him like she usually does. She just taked him into her bedroom, locked the door, an’ spoke so quiet that I couldn’t hear what she said even when I pressed my ear up against the door.
What I did hear was Simon all of a sudden starting to cry real loud. I only just managed to jump away from the door before he threw it open an’ burst out of her room, crying even more than I had when I heard the news. At least, I figure she telled him what she telled me. What else was there to say when they never ever talked to each other anymore? When I goed back to our room, I found him lying on your bed, his face buried into your pillow. I wanted to tell him to get off your bed or else he’d get it all ruined, but I heard him crying. I knew what it was like to miss you, so instead I hopped up next to him an’ put my hand on his arm. He smelled like smoke again, enough to stink up the whole entire room; but I pretended I didn’t smell it.
He looked up at me, eyes rimmed with red just like Mom’s were when she hided in her room.
I smiled an’ promised, “He’ll come back some time. He promised he’d never leave us, ‘member?”
He shaked his head an’ buried his face in your pillow again. I have a secret to tell you: When nobody was watching, I used to climb up onto your bed an’ do what Simon did just then. I’d close my eyes an’ cover my face with your pillow an’ breathe in real deep. An’ you wanna know something? Even after all those months, it still smelled like you.
So that’s why I’m writing this letter, telling you everything that you missed while you were gone. (Well, not everything—just the important stuff.) Mom said she’d send it as soon as I get done writing an’ that she’d make sure you got it right away. I know you dunno when you’ll be back, but could you try to come home as soon as possible?
Well, Mom telled me that whatever I planned to tell you when you got home, I should write here instead ‘cuz you might be a while. So ‘member how I telled you what I planned to say when you got home? Well, I love you so, so much, Brian.
I telled Mom I didn’t know your address out in Iraq, but she hugged me tight an’ said that was OK. You don’t live in Iraq anymore anyway, an’ told me I didn’t need to write your address in Heaven for it to get to the right person. I guess Heaven is special like that. I hope you like all the clouds, but please don’t stay there too long. I miss you enough already.
Thoughts?
Eagerly Awaiting
summary: Eagerly awaiting your silhouette to walk in through the door and put this broken family back together again.
All right, folks, I need corrections and brutal honesty here. This is an English assignment I have due in a couple of weeks, so I need y'all to tell me what I'm doing wrong with these letters, okay? Sorry... I didn't introduce this properly. Let me try again:
This is a series of letters -- ten of them -- written from a boy seven years of age. One letter per year is written, and the boy's writing matures with his age as well, so don't worry about those typos; they aren't accidental. Though some might be, so if you find one that seems like it shouldn't be there please let me know.
The only exposition you won't necessarily be given in the letters themselves is the fact that Benny is writing to his older brother. That's all.
Letter #1, age 7:
I am writing this
letter to you on:
January 13, 2008
Please get it soon
Dear Brian,
At 4:26 yesterday afternoon I was at the kitchen table, coloring a picture I drawed of you, me, Simon, an’ Mom. I know what time it was ‘cuz we just learned how to tell time in school, an’ there’s that clock we got hanging over the stove. Someone knocked on the door, but Mom says I’m not ’lowed to open the door for strangers. ‘Sides, Mom answered it anyway. I tried to listen to Mom an’ the stranger talking ‘cuz grown ups always talk ‘bout important stuff in real quiet voices. A few minutes later, the door closed; an’ all of a sudden, I heard Mom crying. She was crying so, so hard, s’if she skinned her knee on the floor. Mom almost never cries; you’ve seen her—almost never. She wasn’t even crying when she called the police on us a few months before you left ‘cuz she thinked we was lost.
I slipped off my chair an’ peeked into the living room. Not seeing me, she ran into her bedroom an’ shut the door. By the time six o’ clock comed, she was still shut up in her room; an’ I wondered how come she needed so much privacy ‘cuz of one little stranger at the door.
Before you left, I ‘member you telled me not to give Mom too much grief (whatever that means) an’ not to worry: you’d be back soon. Even though it always drove me berserk when you did it, you ruffled my hair an’ telled me to “hold down the fort” while you were gone. Well, Mom let me build a fort that night an’ even let me sleep in it; but she telled me to take it down the next morning. She explained that that’s not what you meant by “holding down the fort.” If she was wrong, I’m sorry I couldn’t keep it built ‘till you got back.
Well, I’m doing pretty good in school just like you always wanted. In a million years I’d never forget what you telled me: getting good grades will give me bigger chances for stuff, an’ getting more chances is real helpful in life. They help you get a good job, which’ll get you money, which’ll mean you don’t hafta live in a ugly, rundown building like where we do now. (Don’t worry, I never telled Mom what I really thinked of this crummy, old place ‘cuz I knew you wouldn’t want me to.)
To me math was always the worstest, boringest subject in the whole wide world. It’s even worse than getting yelled at by Miss Callistow. ‘Member how you telled me to just nod an’ smile to make her stop her scream-‘till-I’m-purple-in-the-face yelling? An’ that eventually she’d give up on screaming at me an’ not do it again? Well, guess what… it worked! The day after you said g’bye to us, Mom called the school to tell the principal ‘bout you leaving. I couldn’t figure out why ‘cuz it’s not like you still goed to school by that time, so why would they wanna know? But I definitely couldn’t complain ‘cuz ever since then Miss Callistow—an’ other teachers, too—started being super duper nice to me. Even grown-ups I never meeted before smiled at me when they passed by in the halls an’ sometimes said a chirpy, “Hello,” that was just as fakely nice as the smile. They didn’t know I realized, an’ I never telled them.
You always used to try to get me into liking math ‘cuz it was your favorite subject (I still don’t get why). When you left, I promised myself to do real good in math; an’ you wanna know what? On the last test we got back, I got a ninety-five an’ a sticker on top that said, “WELL DONE!” in bright, blue letters.
Since you goed away, I haven’t failed a single test. Even Mom was proud that my grades turned so good so quick, an’ Simon joked that maybe you should stay away for longer if this was what happened when you weren’t here. (Don’t worry: even when you come back, I promise to still be smart in school.) Mom’s face looked almost like a bruise when he said that. First her cheeks got so white she looked like a ghost; then red; an’ then purple like a wrinkly, old prune. She yelled at him to “go to his room an’ never, ever come out!” She didn’t mean to sound that mad, I think; she was just real upset. I think she missed you more than Simon or I ever even thinked. After he left, muttering something under his breath, hands shoved into his pockets, Mom started to cry.
Before you left, the only time I saw Mom cry was when Dad ditched us, an’ I hardly ‘membered that anyway. I got kinda nervous, seeing her face all red an’ puffy like it got that first time she cried. But the person who usually comforted me when I was scared wasn’t there anymore; you were already long gone, on some dumb airplane ride to some dumb place real far away that had the strangest way of spelling its name. A ‘Q’ without a ‘U’ to come after it. Miss Callistow always said the letter ‘Q’ had to have a ‘U’ after it, but I-R-A-Q ends just like that, no ‘U’ anywhere in the word at all.
A couple months after you left, I got bored of waiting and asked Mom, “When’s he coming ho-ome?”
Usually, when I whine, she sends me to my room for a time-out; but time-out; but this time she didn’t. She just sat down hard on her bed, head buried in her hands (I think to hide more tears, which seemed to come so much easier with you gone), an’ whispered – so quiet I could barely hear her, “I don’t know, honey. I just don’t know.”
I tiptoed out of the room real quiet after that; an’ a few minutes later, when I pressed my ear against her bedroom door, I could hear her crying to herself behind it.
After that I was pretty careful not to say things to Mom to make her cry, but sometimes she’d get all teary-eyed for just no reason! What was I supposed to say to make her stop crying? I tried all the things she used to use on me whenever I was sad. I telled her, “Don’t worry, Mom; it’ll all be OK.” I even hugged her, an’ she always used to smile when we gave her big bear hugs. ‘Member? Well, that doesn’t work at all anymore; in fact, it just seems to make her cry even harder an’ louder each an’ every time.
Eventually, after a few months passed, I gave up trying to make her stop being so sad an’ just made sure to steer clear of her bedroom whenever I heard her crying. Slowly, she stopped just bursting into tears all the time (like Mrs. McKenzie’s new baby—did you know she was pregnant?); but she also didn’t smile much anymore either. It was like she was always sad, always missing you. Don’t get me wrong, I miss you like crazy, too; but even though you were practically my best friend, even I don’t think ‘bout you every second of every day.
Simon comed home less an’ less, an’ I started to feel more an’ more alone with Mom spending so much time locked in her room. It used to be the five of us: you, me, Simon, Mom, an’ Dad. Then, Dad ditched us (an’ I still don’t get why ‘cuz he promised to always love us). Then, of course, you had to get up an’ leave. You said it was ‘cuz it was your job to “serve our country,” but isn’t our family more important?
Then Mom started to pull away from us, so it’s like she left, too. It dropped from five to two in just a few years, an’ I hoped at least Simon’d stay with me ‘cuz he was the only one left. But he turned fifteen five months after you left us, an’ I guess he started to think he was too cool to hang out with me anymore. An’ then there was just one left; there was only me.
Before he stopped coming home at night, I’d hear the door creak open real late. Mom always thinked I was asleep by the time Simon got home, but I could never sleep in a room with three beds if I was all alone. An’ since your bed would be empty for a while, I’d stay up ‘till Simon crept into bed.
I’d hear them yelling in the living room, an’ then Mom’d always hiss at Simon to “stop talking so loud or you’ll wake your brother.” I never telled Mom that I heard every single word anyway, an’—even though Simon knew that I couldn’t sleep without him there—he never let my secret slip either.
He started to smell like smoke a lot, just like Dad used to before he left. I barely ‘member Dad an’ can’t ‘member his smile or his voice at all, but I wouldn’t forget the smell of him in a million years. It stunk up the whole house like there was a fire or something.
Mom yelled at Simon even more when he comed home like that, said he’d end up just like his good-for-nothing dad. She’s right, though; Dad was good for nothing, not even good for tucking us into bed at night. That was always Mom’s job… but she stopped tucking me when she started to hide in her room all day an’ all night.
I counted down the days ‘till you could come back. You telled me twelve months; that’s what you said, an’ I planned to hold you to it. I had it all marked down on my calendar. (Today was the three-months-left date.) Sometimes, when I had nothing to do, I’d sit on my bed an’ wonder: did you change at all? I know I did; everyone says so. The doctor said I grew lots of inches an’ that you’d prob’ly barely even recognize me the next time you saw me.
I hope he was wrong; I wouldn’t want you not to know who I am when you come home.
When he said that, I started to cry, just a little bit; but I wiped away my tears before he saw them. I didn’t want him to think I was a baby or nothin’. I just missed you is all. I only cried for you once after that, even though I really missed you lots of the time, ’specially when I’d go over to Nicholas’s house an’ see his big brother. He was the same age you were, so how come he didn’t also have to go “serve our country” same as you?
I asked you that the day you left, ‘member? You said it was your choice an’ not something you had to do, but then I got real mad at you an’ screamed a lot an’ slammed the door in your face. I still get mad when I think that you decided to just leave your family when you promised you’d never be like Dad an’ ditch us, but I’m sorry for screaming. I didn’t really mean to say, “I hate you.” I don’t, not really. I love you; I was just angry, that’s all.
I know you prob’ly already forgived me then ‘cuz you never get mad, but I still feel guilty ‘bout it sometimes. It was the last thing I said to you before you left, so when you get home I promise the first words out of my mouth will be, “I love you, Brian.”
I’ll hug you so hard that your head’ll pop off, an’ we’ll have to screw it back on again. An’ then I’ll drag you into the apartment an’ show you our room… I’ll show you how it’s exactly the same as when you left, except that it’s a little cleaner ‘cuz you wanted me to keep it neat for Mom. I left your bed just the way it was so that you’d ‘member it when you got back home.
‘Member ‘bout that stranger I telled you ‘bout at the beginning of this letter? Well, after Mom was in her room forever ‘bout it, she finally comed out. Her cheeks were red an’ splotchy s’if she’d just rubbed them real hard with a towel; an’ her eyes were wet. At first I thinked she taked a shower; but her hair was still hanging in that messy ponytail she was wearing before, an’ it was dry, unlike her cheeks. She looked right past me an’ sat down on the couch hard, squeezing her eyes shut an’ moving her lips. But I think maybe her voice got broke or something because I didn’t hear any words come out.
It taked me a while to realize she was actually whispering something. Your name: Brian, Brian, Brian—over an’ over. Brian, Brian, Brian. BrianBrianBrianBrian…
I guess she really misses you loads an’ loads. I miss you, too, Brian, so much.
Later that day Mom said that I wouldn’t get another chance to speak to you for a long time, so I better write down whatever I planned on saying to you right here. That’s why I’m writing this letter. She said that you won’t be coming home when you promised you would but that it’s not your fault. I guess if it’s not your fault, then I can’t be mad at you, can I? ‘Sides, I won’t make the same mistake twice: I’m not gonna say something I’ll regret when I dunno when I’ll see you again.
That was the second time I cried for you, Brian. I cried so hard that I think I finally ran out of tears in the end. An’ when Simon comed home this afternoon, Mom didn’t even yell at him like she usually does. She just taked him into her bedroom, locked the door, an’ spoke so quiet that I couldn’t hear what she said even when I pressed my ear up against the door.
What I did hear was Simon all of a sudden starting to cry real loud. I only just managed to jump away from the door before he threw it open an’ burst out of her room, crying even more than I had when I heard the news. At least, I figure she telled him what she telled me. What else was there to say when they never ever talked to each other anymore? When I goed back to our room, I found him lying on your bed, his face buried into your pillow. I wanted to tell him to get off your bed or else he’d get it all ruined, but I heard him crying. I knew what it was like to miss you, so instead I hopped up next to him an’ put my hand on his arm. He smelled like smoke again, enough to stink up the whole entire room; but I pretended I didn’t smell it.
He looked up at me, eyes rimmed with red just like Mom’s were when she hided in her room.
I smiled an’ promised, “He’ll come back some time. He promised he’d never leave us, ‘member?”
He shaked his head an’ buried his face in your pillow again. I have a secret to tell you: When nobody was watching, I used to climb up onto your bed an’ do what Simon did just then. I’d close my eyes an’ cover my face with your pillow an’ breathe in real deep. An’ you wanna know something? Even after all those months, it still smelled like you.
So that’s why I’m writing this letter, telling you everything that you missed while you were gone. (Well, not everything—just the important stuff.) Mom said she’d send it as soon as I get done writing an’ that she’d make sure you got it right away. I know you dunno when you’ll be back, but could you try to come home as soon as possible?
Well, Mom telled me that whatever I planned to tell you when you got home, I should write here instead ‘cuz you might be a while. So ‘member how I telled you what I planned to say when you got home? Well, I love you so, so much, Brian.
I telled Mom I didn’t know your address out in Iraq, but she hugged me tight an’ said that was OK. You don’t live in Iraq anymore anyway, an’ told me I didn’t need to write your address in Heaven for it to get to the right person. I guess Heaven is special like that. I hope you like all the clouds, but please don’t stay there too long. I miss you enough already.
Love,
Your brother
Ben
Your brother
Ben
Thoughts?