Dear Handsome Albert,
Where are you on Mondays? I don’t remember. Is it the place with the wind and the rocks? Do you still stack them up and hide from the weather? Did you ever turn your border wall into a home?
Maybe you’re on the beach. Everything smells like coconuts.
Like I said, I don’t remember anymore.
Why am I writing you now? Good question. Probably because I’m older. Enough summers have come and gone. The patina on my fortress feels beautiful and safe.
Don’t worry. I’ll be brief.
You were right about work. Work is work.
But winter? There’s so much more. It’s deeper than you thought. It’s as big as the world. The icy roads go on forever. The prickling on our skin doesn’t go away. I may never feel my thumbs again.
Thought you should know,