Dear Inigo,
Since you were gone for the night, we visited Papa for a few hours today. Just for a few stories and flowers, then I brought Mima across town. She is only there because you would never permit her. With the clouds like this, you would tuck her under all the sheets in the house and ply her with tales from the lab. She would try to listen, but relativity and lightspeed engines always put her to sleep. So this night, when the moon settled enough to see road-bumps, I let her go. Now, I can only imagine her eating pili tarts and painting dollhouses with the daughters of the merchants. Those girls with polyester jackets and iron-tipped shoelaces delight in her bracelets and buttons; she and the mayor’s daughter are always on the same team. When they play, she laughs as if there are no filaments in her throat, no wires in her ribcage.
Still, I know she thinks of you. On market days, I always hear the widows and the wives grumble about their children. Clucking at each other, day and night!. Creatures spilled from the same factory never get along, they say, but when Mima was born, you did not even ask what she was, or how much space she would take in your room. Instead, you took your watch-battery flashlight and set the beam upon her little palm. Mima looked upon it; I still remember how her eyes burst, as red and wide as rambutan. On the very first day of her life, you gifted Mima with her first gurgling, squeaking laugh.
If I recounted all the stories, this letter would end up far too long to fit in your suitcase and take to the future.
(To Be Continued...)
Image from: Youtube