For my parents.
___________________________________
Another letter.

In the upstairs room of the chilly house, the man reaches for his pen. Worn by hours of writing equations, hours of problems, theorems, the pen returns to a more noble purpose.

Thoughts swirl. How does one spell emotion? How does one convey longing? How does one write love?

The tapping of the pen on the paper is the only audible sound of his struggle; his sole desire to embody himself in the fibers of this paper, so she may open it and see and feel his presence in that place, thousands of miles away. But will it be that, or nothing more than scrap paper discarded by an overseer mother's disdain of budding romance?

He begins his task by writing Her name. Such a simple task, yet filled with meaning. He cannot write what he feels; nay, the mother would prevent any outburst of hope, any whisper of love, any glimmer of desire.

In a futile attempt to avoid the truth, the man begins to write about meaningless things: school, teaching, the strange customs and language, the strange new country in which he had become nothing more than an academic guest. He writes the letter in his language, our language, which is understood by few in this foreign place.

Alas, the Man must write what He feels, what He knows in His Heart every waking moment, everyday He walks to school, every time He sees a couple in a passionate embrace. He writes what is true: 我想你.

He seals the letter, and scribbles the address He knows by heart. Every stroke of the pen on the paper sounds expectation. In His mind, He imagines the Woman opening the letter, days and thousands of miles from now, Her hands feeling the texture of the envelope in Her hands...

The Man sits, smoothing the envelope with His rough hands. The letter is just one of countless letters, each with professed loyalty, dedication, and hope of unity in-between every line, on every page. Many are lost, many are discarded, censored; valuable words of love left, forgotten on dusty bookshelves or rotting with the previous night's scraps. But He continues to write.

Each response, returned with a renewed hope of the future.

Each response, the Man sits at his desk and His pen returns to a much nobler purpose.