40. Letters
Letters
Jackson,
You went into Target for laundry soap and came out with a plush dinosaur. I’m starting to think you need a handler, Jackson. Though I can’t really judge—Brody once went to the commissary for toothpaste and came back with three jars of hot sauce and a giant inflatable pool float.
You asked about the ducks at the bottom of my pages. I guess I owe you that story.
When I was little, my grandpa used to take me to this frozen pond down the road from his cabin.
The ducks would always stay near the edge where the ice melted.
I used to sit on an upside-down bucket for hours, sketching them in a little spiral notebook while he fished.
It was the only time my brain ever went quiet.
I started doodling them in my notebooks in high school whenever I felt overwhelmed, and it just stuck.
Out here, when the dust storms hit or the deployment gets too heavy, I draw a duck.
It’s my way of reminding myself that there is a quiet pond waiting for me somewhere when this is all over.
You said you just want to be seen, Jackson. I see you. I see the kind, beautiful soul in every single line you write. Don’t ever think people only want you for a lifestyle. The guy behind the jersey is the only one I care about.
Splash