Work Text:
I burst through the my home's mahogany doors with an energetic face, one that surprised my mom when she saw me. Mom was always strong, though her posture and muscle definition was sharply contrasted by her sullen, exhausted brown eyes. But today she looked invigorated like me: her tail high in the air, almost jittering with excitement, she smiled. Looking at her, it felt so strange to see her rejuvenated; however, it was only for a perennial second, as I carried on with my bolting with all the power in my flabby raccoon anthro legs and glutes to the stairs and straight into my room. I paid no mind to the clothes scattered on top of my carpeted floor, the open books on my bed, nor the open window blowing in the leaves of fall as I crashed into my spinning chair that I found in the attic. It was old, and across the hallway my dad's office chair lay perfectly untouched. Mom had always told me to never touch anything in Dad's room even though I would absolutely never. However, there were a few times where I would peek into the room and see a couple of hairs of black and brown fur on his office chair. Occasionally, I would hear a soft sob from across the hallway. Anyway, I quickly oriented myself to face my desk, and lo and behold there was that blessed white envelope--there was that signature Mariner stamp along with the government's "H-A," Human-Anthro, sticker that gave high priority to letters from human servicemen to their anthro children and wives. According to scientific experimentation, it was especially paramount that we anthro kids be in correspondence with our fathers. They talked about anthro brain chemistry and other complicated jargon. With wide eyes I examined the envelope, using every fiber of self-control to prevent myself from tearing the letter open with my claws. After a quick moment, I used my index claw to slice the seal gum and pulled out the letter circumspect, which fell out as I pinched it from its top. I began reading.
"Hey Faith!
It's Dad. How have you been, dear? It has been stressful this past few months. I am still always going to boring meetings where nothing really is done. Anyway, I'm still in the last spot as the last time I wrote--I am sure you noticed the familiar address on the top, my little Faith, always so smart and attentive. Though I do not know if I should still be calling you little, you will always be mine, and I always yours.
Just yesterday I was walking back to my station from a meeting, and I saw a young, maybe six-years-old, girl who looked just like you and even your mom. She was playing soccer with these other boys whom I assumed were her brothers. Man, was she good! She blitzed right through them and scored an easy goal, just as you were doing before I was shipped off. Remember that match where Mom and I seemed so upset and sad? I could not help getting a little nostalgic but depressed. I know you do not play soccer anymore, but how is tennis so far? Last time you told me that you had just started and were loving it. The US Open is in a few days--I will be watching it whenever I can--be there or be square.
I know this is a short letter, but please do not think that I am thinking less about you. Believe me, you and Mom are really the only people I am thinking about when I am given the opportunity to. Unfortunately, to be a debbie downer, you ground me in reality most times. This work I am doing has never really felt right for me. But anyway, remember that I will be back. Back before you know it, Faith. And do not worry, I have another couple of pictures for you!
Remember I will always love you,
Dad"
Quietly, I took the pictures and hung them up on my cork bulletin board. I gently folded the letter back up and put it back in its envelope. I withdrew a sharpie from a hopper on my desk and marked the envelope September 5th before opening my aging desk's drawer and placing it next to another one--there was about ten, fifteen by then, and they all had some sort of mark on them. The one in the very back had crayon markings and smudges, one in the middle looked like it had been crumpled up but then straightened out, another one was taped together... I had not noticed, but like all the times preceeding, a couple drops from my eyes had been dropped like ordnance from a bomber onto the envelope. And for what felt like hours, I did not move. Eventually, though, I got up. I traipsed downstairs, my left hand sliding across the wooden railing and slapping the balustrade, and got a sheet of paper and pencil. As my pencil scraped across my papers, I could see in my peripheral vision the sun slowly yet surely sink further and further into the forested hills, the lush green turning to silhouettes against the twilight sky.
"Dear Dad..."