Last night I wrote to my friend Jillyan. Everyone else calls her Jill. I never shorten it.

Jillyan is living in Mexico. I love folding the thin, blue airmail paper as it becomes its own prepaid envelope. Using mail is so dated these days, but I love the feel of the light paper and the elegantly efficient design. Airmail letters to Mexico are pretty much the only letters I send so I never need to keep stamps in the house.

Jillyan left for Mexico six and a half months ago now. It started as a travelling holiday. These days she has a job, reporting for a local newspaper. She's started talking about marrying some local guy. I would like to meet him. I'm worried she's rushing things.

I write to Jillyan every other week. She doesn't write as often as I do, but I know that she appreciates my letters.

In our letters we talk about all kinds of things. I talked about the Ted Hughs poems I've been reading recently. I know she likes literature. The Jaguar caught my eye. It screams of unfulfilled potential. Even those born in captivity know that there is a wilderness outside that demands to be ruled. Though you've never seen anything but the narrow confines of this cage, you know your inheritance is more than this.

Last night, I felt like that.

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