Dear Uncle Phillip,
It is finally autumn here and the rains of summer have stopped. The ground is still damp but the skies are beautiful this time of year. The giant cumulonimbus cauliflowers at the coattails of the storms threatened to draw me off in their pillowy blooms yesterday afternoon and I can’t say I would have been disappointed if they did.
You were right; I quit my job on Friday. My calendar this week says “Fall Begins” and that’s kind of how I feel, like Lucifer, but at the same time I feel like singing; singing just for myself. When I hiked to Alpental two wet summers ago, there was a deep deserted lake with a rocky shoreline and I just sat on a boulder and tried to coax Rebroff, Bocelli, Pavarotti out of my larynx but they didn’t want to cooperate, damn prima donnas.
The sun has crept over the hills and is melting the clouds and I won’t be able to write much longer. I’m certain you already suspected this but please tell my parents that I am leaving. I know you dislike talking to your brother but please let him know I don’t blame him.
It’s time to go; I’ll miss you all. The sun is calling to me.