Just as I sent a letter to Cary, I got one. On naval stationary. Which you might think would be official-feeling but felt more like corresponding with a pen pal obsessed with sailors. But that familiar cramped handwriting wasn't that of my long lost 12-year-old pen pal. It was his and felt as good to see as his voice is to hear.
He had been making journal-like jots in a notebook and so reiterated the highlights. Funny story. Hilarious Foxtrot classmate from San Diego messes up a sprint and Cary has to hold in the laughter for fear of punishment. Sad story. He's rubbing his sore neck on a run and gets yelled at by the DS (drill sergeant). "Why Were You Doing that Lawson?!" / "Because this Candidate is an Idiot, Sir!" (This is what that particular DS likes to call the candidates.) But this response doesn't go over well either and he's threatened with having to write that 1,0000 times. Then it starts getting a little bummed out and lonely and sad and sweet, all at the same time.
So I race to the post office to mail his care package.
And before leaving home, while researching shipping prices and when it would get there, I see on our desktop calendar that early March wasn't the only time he had scheduled for flowers to be delivered to me.
Distance effing makes the heart grow fonder.