Dear Susana,

The winter days weren’t many this season. The deep Midwestern snow drifts that we would sail over on your father’s red sled as if we were that Greek god, pulling behind us the night sky? There weren't any this season. Maybe it's those large fires out in California? My father was watching the news like always, and he said that thousands lost their homes – and some of the fires were started by arsonists. In my way – the way that your mother used to dislike, when I’d lose time, falling into my own mind to dream – I’d hoped that as a whole, humanity is better than that.

But there is the war in the Ukraine, and like those summer fireflies we’d chase as children, trying to catch them to see if we could discover their secret to why they light up, white-phosphorus rains down on homes over there… at least that's what the news shows. But I have to wonder, if that's what they are showing, isn’t it worse? I worry that in your far travels, Susana, you could have been swept up to a place like that, or any other place in which the tyranny of old men use the past as a weapon.

We both know what happens when old pains are dug up, and neither of us can let them die, don’t we, Susana? I do, and maybe someday we can forgive each other.

Ah, your younger brother is doing well, though. He started dating a Ukrainian girl that came over here, escaping the war. At first, she looked as stoney-faced as you’d expect for someone who had been through that, but it wasn’t long before she started laughing and talking in those new, strange words kids make up all the time. Your brother’s luck knows no bounds, though. Remember his friend, Jonny? The boy started dating a Hispanic girl, but her and her family were taken away by some men in black body-armor and they haven't been seen since.

I was on one of my aimless walks, as your mother would say about me, I'm, “looking for where the sun sets,” when I thought, "Hell, there has to be a better solution then to just throw people out.” You would have taken them in, I think, and your family would have made them laugh for hours, just as long as the boys weren’t dreamers.

You should see the city, though. So many people are moving here that it’s like a real metropolis. It’s funny, you know, back when there were still fireflies about and we thought the city pools were packed with people, it ain’t nothing like it is now. I guess it’s also because we are older, but I see license plates from all over the States now. Traffic is terrible and houses are going up everywhere. Those fields we used to play in are being paved over.

It makes me wonder where you are, Susana. Are you in a place that doesn't have roads? Is the night sky like a blanket children hide under where they can see a thousand, thousand tiny pinpricks of light? I hope it’s not an island, not Taiwan. I’ve been hearing about a possible war over that island, like it's inevitable.

I am afraid these winter days will get warmer as more rockets are sent by people pushing buttons. It may just be me dreaming it up – maybe it’s the cows changing the climate, maybe like the guys down at work say where it’s the planet’s poles getting ready to switch, or maybe it's the private jets of the rich who are as detached as we are, moving across the sky like a child scribbling back and forth with a crayon. I think turning whole countries into bonfires doesn't help, though.

I’ve got to go now, and I’ll send this letter like you asked, but I hope it doesn’t find you. Remember how you used to argue with your father, and you both would go back and forth all night? It never mattered who started it, but somehow you were always both right, while thinking the other was wrong. I did love your confidence and courage… but it’s like that in the States right now: politics are worse than ever, finger pointing and shouting matches are all that's had. I’ll always hold onto that memory that I have of when you told me that you admired my ability to turn a debate into a dialogue, but, like your mother said, I'm different. 

I love you, Susana, and I hope in your race to find the quietest part of your mind somewhere out there in the world, you remember flying over the snow drifts, the fireflies, the fields, but not the rest.

In admiration and ever yours,

Austin

P.S. I’m saving you the rest of my mother’s pie, in case you do come back.

Austin Petak is an aspiring novelist and freelance journalist who loves seeking stories and the quiet passions of the soul. If you are interested in reaching out to him to cover a story, you may find him at austinpetak@gmail.com.

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