a letter from a boy in the future to a girl in the past.

I am writing to you and it’s almost dark.

It’s almost dark because the fires are going out.

The fires are going out because we haven’t had wood in weeks and the shredded paper is nearly used up.

The shredded paper is nearly used up because I have been using it to write letters to you.

My uncle doesn’t know.  I roll them up very, very tight and I hide them between the blankets on my cot.  I’m worried he’ll find them.  I’m worried he’ll find the letters you write me, too.  I’m worried he’ll find them and burn them all so that we can be warm.  So that we won’t die.

But to be honest, if he burned your letters, all I would want is to be dead. 

You’re a very good writer.

I like hearing about your aunt.  And your strict father.  And your stupid mother.  Wait.  Not stupid.  Sorry.  Even though you call her stupid, I probably shouldn’t.

My uncle Mateo is a lot like your father.  He is strict and he doesn’t talk very much.  He leaves our home early every morning.  He puts on his armor.  He always takes 2 or 3 guns with him.  When he comes home they are usually covered with blood.  He likes to shoot men from very close range.  I ask him why.  “Because,” he says, “I have to be sure they’re dead.”

Whenever he finds a book out there he brings it to me.  Last year he brought me one about the history of airplanes.  There was a whole chapter about Amelia Earhart.  They never found her, did they? 

Please don’t disappear.  If you do, I will never read your letters.

I hope I don’t run out of paper to write to you on.  I hope my uncle finds wood outside.  I hope when he comes home he isn’t covered in blood.

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