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Four Months have gone by so fast.
7749. They are 7749 miles away. Yet all that they had left me was this letter.
We are very proud of you.
My eyebrows tighten and create wrinkles on my tan forehead. I hold my breath until the urge to cry departs from me. Two more deep breaths give me enough to regain my composure. My black eyes once again reach down to the crinkled paper. I read on.
Writing to this point in the letter, grandma has already broken down to tears, and I cannot hold it in much longer. We cannot make you food and take you fishing anymore.
I remember that two weeks ago on the day of the full moon, a moon cake sat on the green countertop. It is Chinese custom that we eat moon cake on the full moon as is it custom to treat guests with respect. My grandma handed me a fork. This moon cake was imprinted with fancy embroideries and had the Chinese word 'å–œ' which means good luck and fortune. She made it herself, taking time to make sure that the cake would not be too sweet nor too dry. This is the Chinese way, to always look for the positive and pay attention to even the finest details.
After eating the moon cake, I burst out the door with my fishing rod to my backyard. Grandpa was squatting by the lake waiting patiently and quietly. I slowed my steps and tip-toed to him. He held up his hand, a sign to be quiet, and without warning, he jerked his rod and vigorously reeled in the line. A fish about 5 inches poked out of the murky lake.
'Aren't you cold?' he unzipped his jacket. 'Here put this on.'
'No, keep it on. I'm not cold.' I insisted.
My grandpa is a role model to me. Treat everyone with respect, he would say, and everyone will treat you with respect. This golden rule by Pittacus and Thales is lost in today's world- just go to a football game; but this is the rule that I live by, the rule that is instilled in me.
I blink and once again the letter stands in front of me. New creases form around my thumb. Eight words remain for me to read. My eyes swell. Instinctively, I shut my eyes and try not to think about it, but this time I open them. One tear navigates its way down the rough surface of my skin. It travels the length of my face but halts at my chin. Like a person hanging from a cliff, the tear slowly loses its grip and falls. The tear dries on the paper mixing the blue lines with the red, creating a new color.
Goodbye, hopefully we can see you again.