Canada

There is so much I should apologize for, so much I should have told you. I tried, in so many ways, and I know you feel cheated. You're right, I did pay more attention to your brother while you two grew-not because he was better or even better liked-he made the most noise and needed the most attention. Anyone who has raised any living creature be it children, dogs, cats or nations can tell you that-the loud troublemaker gets the attention-the well behaved quiet one does not.

Do you remember yelling at me right before you got your freedom, yelling about how I forgot you and why I never remembered you despite the fact you were always there? I had no explanation, nothing to say besides "I'm sorry." And then I went home and thought. I have an answer, Matthew, pitifully late though it is. You never asked for one but you should have it.

You've probably read the bible-I've read several versions and while I believe nothing in it, it does have interesting stories. Remember the Prodigal Son? That's what started me on the quest for your answer. You remind me of the good son, the one who fulfilled all his father's expectations and still got nothing. I reread that story, went out and walked around, and spent days and nights puzzling over myself, you, the other former colonies, and then, on a rainy night after a phone call from you wishing me a happy day, I understood.

I never really forgot you, Canada. Not ever. I just-well, how do I explain this? You were always there. You fought beside me, a stalwart companion. You gave me everything. And I don't want you to think I took that for granted although I'm sure you thought I did. You were-are-my right arm, my back. Canada, I never worried about my back with you there. You were part of me, so much so that I trusted you utterly. You were certainly individual but still part of me and not like a colony. You were my trusted friend-one of the very few I considered friends. I never worried about betrayal from you.

And, Matthew, you were my favorite.

Oh, I know you'll bring up your brother. While America had an amazing part of me, he isn't family like you. Yes, I liked and got along with other nations. And yes, I cared very much for all my former colonies and all the commonwealth. Some were my children, some my comrades, some my allies. Even so, three stood out. While I'd never say so, Australia, India, and you shine like stars. India, lovely lady who is so refined and strong. Australia, so much the mischief maker and yet so sane when he wants to be. And you. You stubborn gentleman, the man I wish I could have been. Kind, mannered, gentle and underneath brave, strong and incredibly thoughtful. Don't think you are perfect-none of are-but if any nation could be perfect, you come closest to the ideal.

And yet, I never could tell you. We remained friends, became closer, and through it all, I told myself never to forget your name or you again. And I did pretty well. Yet, I still saw so many times you simply didn't understand all that you meant to me and I, land of Milton, land of Shakespeare, never could find the words. So I knew at times you got angry still, argued with me and I despaired. Despaired because even a dolt like America seemed to get it and you, bright, wise, clever Canada, did not. It appeared I wasn't the only one who could be blind. Perhaps both you and Alfred learned that from me. That's the only thing I can think of.

It simply comes down to this, Matthew. You who sees everything so well, why couldn't you see this? Perhaps America did have my heart like you always claimed. But if that's the case, why couldn't you see it was you who held my soul?

Canada straightened the parchment with shaking hands. Slowly, he reread the letter again and then glanced at the box where three more letters sat, one marked India, another Australia, the last America. Gently, he took each letter , skimmed them, and put each carefully back when he was done. Each somewhat like his but none bearing the same statements. Canada picked up his letter and began reading it again, to memorize each word.

America stepped into the filthy tunnel and frowned. "Canada?" he called. No one answered yet he walked forward and frowned at the sound of-sobs?

He walked swiftly to where he found his brother, crouched over a small, fireproof box. "Maddie?"

Canada looked up, his normally soft eyes hard ice despite being rimmed in red. "We need to find England."

America slowly stepped back. "We will, bro. Promise." He exhaled. He could feel something in Canada he did not like in the least. It was the same feeling he felt when they had battled in 1812, the same expression Canada wore a few times in World War One and Two, the expression that made Germany always go silent and pale. "What did you find? Is it a clue to where he could be?"

Canada shook his head. "England's letters. In case he died." Canada carefully picked up the box. "We have to find him, America." His voice cracked. "I need to tell him some things."

"Are you all right?" America grasped his brother's shoulder. Canada blinked at him.

"I miss him." The words came out very soft.

America looked away, felling his stomach clench. "Me, too," he whispered.