A letter to a friend -
It is winter where I live now, and the snow looks so pure and white over everything. As my family and I huddle round a roaring log fire outside our dwelling tent, I think of you. I know that it is the summer where you are, and I wish I was with you, and that you and I were both swimming in the lake with Ciro and his twin sister Anna. Like we used to.
At the time of writing this letter, I am sitting on a thick chequered rug with Mother and Father, Uncle Yahweh and Auntie Etwom, nursing my mug of hot chocolate and cinnamon between my gloved hands. Father is playing the pan-pipes while Mother sings traditional folk songs. She has a good singing voice my mother.
As I take my gaze away from my family and the hypnotic flames of the log fire, I look round at the surrounding forest, trying to see if I can spot any of the little fairy folk or other mystical beings hiding in the trees. I sometimes see one or two and still get excited when I do. I can't imagine anyone not having that tingly feeling you get when you catch sight of something that so many people think does not exist except in imaginary stories. How the little folk must laugh at their ignorance.
The stars look beautiful up there in that black-blue sky, so many more of them to see here than in the light polluted town where I moved from.
Perhaps you would like to visit me sometime, if your Mother and Father allow you to. I hope they do. Then we can go skiing and tobogganing, and build campfires. I can show you the ice caves and the northern lights. We could travel on a sled pulled by husky dogs. There are so many things I would like to show you.
I have to go now. It is bedtime, and my eyes are heavy with approaching sleep.
Write soon and take care,