Dear Wallabee,
You are a very loud person, the kind that screams and charges along the white-hot sand, toes aflame and arms flung up above their shining head. Bird-wing arms that slice deep into the sky. You are a cup, brimming full of life.
Can you remember that?
It is a strange thing, looking at you now, lifeless and frozen in silence, your mat of sad blonde hair paling like the grass without the sunlight. I remember you with your scuffed sneakers and little hooded sweater, shooting fiery words up at the boys that tower like redwood trees above you. You were always angry that way. I remember you with your flashlight, sweeping the quaking beam through the heavy blackness, terrified that a giant bug would suddenly loom down and swallow you whole. Don't worry; I won't tell. I remember you with your weights and your wrestling mat: the weights that are too heavy for you to lift and the mat that stinks of your own defeated sweat. Why do you keep them in your room, Wally? Do they bring you happiness? The happiness of boys is a very weird thing: it is filled with punches instead of hugs. Hopefully sometime you can explain it to me.
Your friend,
Kuki