Letter

Take the trash out, go to the mailbox. Power bill. Overdraft notice, the first in nearly two years. Damn. Something from the doctor. A letter. Wait, I know that chickenscratch...
It's from RSM.
I fly to my door, wake up the iMac with a mouse click, log in. Rip it open, but not too sloppy. The postmark indicates last Friday--fast enough mail for me. One small sheet of United States Army stationery waits inside. It's full of chickenscratch. His first words:
"I'm alive. I'm tired. I'm ready to go home."
This week starts the endless FTXs, field training exercises. Saturday was a PFT, the physical fitness test. I'm sure he did fine, that overachiever. He doesn't mention rifle marksmanship qualifications, but I bet he doesn't want to brag. It's short and to the point, but what with the little free time they have, I certainly understand. I'm just happy to have gotten a letter!
"It's just that with day after day at 100F, the body armor can be a bit... uncomfortable. And when I say 'a bit uncomfortable,' I mean it in the same way as when I say, 'King Kong is a bit fuzzy.'"
Ah, there's his wit. He's fine.