You’re the leader of what used to be at least five million people—not sure how many followers you have now, what with the thinning of human ranks. How interested someone like you could possibly be in how things are going for those of us left behind here is a real quandary. Am I wasting the time of a godly man with bigger fish to fry by making him read this? Am I wasting mine, because you and no one else ever will see this?
Your mom has to write you letters. She’s your mom. That’s what moms do, or at least the good ones. Me, a half-brother thirty-one years older, whom you barely know? There’s no moral imperative for letter writing.
When you write us back someday—if you write us back someday—it will be like one of those incredibly lucky breaks in the movies or like winning the lottery. For me, it would be every bit as exciting as being in the woods and stumbling upon a whole genus of slime mold that no one has ever discovered before.
Jill Riddell is a writer in Chicago. She teaches at the School of the Art Institute and has a weakness for nature, magic, and pennies abandoned in sidewalk cracks.