I’ve read the letter so many times
I think I know it by heart, yet I always
see something new, different, enlightening.
Maybe, it’s me. It was sent from the Pacific,
the Second World War, by a soldier to his son
in Minnesota, age of one. He wrote of death,
but not of dying; killing and how it coarsens;
pain, yet not of crying; bravery, but not of being
brave; and fear, only of being forgotten. He wrote
with hope of coming home one day, yet his letter
held the important thoughts he might never get
to say. There was no time for trivial things.
His words were wise to guide his son
at any age.