Letter Home

I like that you are living in a house I know intimately. It lets me imagine your life which I envision as puttering around the farm in a terrycloth bathrobe, cigarette in mouth, maybe with pink foam hair rollers, calling to one or more skittish, injured, or derelict animals for feeding time.

AV is in the living room frantically adjusting the EQ on a song he hasn’t heard since high school while yelling to you to hurry up with red beers, you gotta hear this, and leave those damn cats alone!  Your answer being, Helluva time, kid, helluva time! But it’s cheerio my deario that pulls a lady through! as you reach for your gadget to Instagram the water gauge and ask yourself what to do with all these damn kittens.

I secretly hope you will become one of those types at the bar on Saturday night regaling my former classmates and frenemies with tales of my adventures on the old continent after a plethora of Captain and Cokes. Make sure you include images of red light districts, poetry readings in leather, dancing in WWII bunkers at 6am on a Tuesday, my brilliant and brooding resistance hero on a scooter dressed in black, and my comrades making art and history on designer drugs.  That will keep ’em busy until my obit from the New York Times is reprinted in the Hebron Journal-Register.

Love and all that Jungian nonsense,

The Accidental Immigrant

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