Sent: January 1st, 2017 From: [Redacted] Dear M–, It’s weird to write that, but it’s also weird to be writing a letter to my Mom after all this time. I hope this is the right address. Greg said it was. I emailed him. The card probably looks weird too, but I’m not at the Brandenburg Gate, I just picked up a big pack of cheap cards the last time I was in Germany.  I got recommended for the Air Medal and my commander said he would send a letter notifying my family about it, but I couldn’t think of anyone to send it to. My next of-kin contact form is blank now. If you get this, let me know, and I’ll have him send it to you, if that’s ok? I didn’t just pick up writing postcards randomly. I had someone I was writing to for, God, for years now. Every little thing that happened in my day, I would think ‘should I put this in the letter’? And every letter I’d get back, I liked to think the writer was thinking that too, multiple times a day, just, thinking of me. That’s where the postcards were from. Why I bought them. I’d use those if I didn’t have a lot to say, to save on postage, I guess. I used to write letters too. Pages and pages and pages, all in a shoebox back in my storage locker in Idaho. I always started them “Dear M–” and so when I sat down to write this to you, that’s what came out. Sorry if that’s weird. It’s just, I have all of this love left over and nowhere for it to go. I can’t write who I was writing. Not anymore. But I don’t have anyone else to tell about my day. My life. My guys live through it with me every day, they don’t need to hear me bitch about it at night too. That’s where I’d write, am writing. Before dinner, I’d take a walk, in whatever place I was. Around the barracks, around the base in Kunsan or Warner-Robins or Mountain Home or wherever. Here I just wander around the trailers we all live in. It’s not much to look at, but it’s what I’ve got.  Honestly, this base kind of reminds me of home. Then I come here, sit down on my cot, and start writing. Just a little update, or a question, or some kind of bit we were committed to tossing back and forth. It just seemed so normal. Then it didn’t. I should ask how you are, because I do want to know. I want to know how you’ve spent the last decade and a half, what your favorite flowers on the rez are, how many people you can fit into your house (Greg said you had a house?).  Anything you want to tell me about your life and how you’re living, I want to know. Your son, Alex PS: Sorry there’s so many cards in this one envelope, once I started I couldn’t seem to stop and I didn’t want to use up 15 postcard stamps.

↳ Arturo + The Crashdown Cafe

“My sense of fairness and justice does not apply to my family. I thought I was more principled than that, but {we} are all alone together. And I can't give up on them… ever.”

“I don't know if this is the real me. You know, I thought that being just a normal guy from Roswell… I don't know, maybe it's something else to hide behind. You know, without my abilities, I don't feel the pressure to be everyone's savior. You know, I can hold your hand without worrying I'll hurt you. But I don't want to be someone that turns their back on their family… or who's constantly breaking your heart.”

“I wish I had answers for you. I mean- there was never anyone around to help us understand. We grew up watching movies where aliens abduct people, violate them and blow up the White House. I’m a son. I’m a brother. I’m a cop.”

“I never woke up on a Sunday morning to him singing Hank Williams in the shower. He never snuck unreasonable tips into my dad's checks... or quoted Henry IV. Coming home to you, at the end of my worst days... and my best days, is the only rescue I need.”

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