Dear Chad,
Sorry to hear that you are stuck at
KMC. I’ve been a bit under the weather myself; otherwise I’d come and visit
you. I asked my friend, Miss Kitty, to go and see you in my place. She informs
me that you are not doing well, and I am truly sorry to hear that.
Remember the time we walked on the
back edge of your mother’s property? You got stuck in a mud bog, and sank up to
your waist in the bog. Your uncle rescued you, and your mom took pictures of
us. We looked like mud monsters. We sure had a lot of good times together,
getting into all kinds of mischief.
I think my fondest memories of us
are from when we were still innocent children. We rode our bikes to the creek
to fish and swim, designed home made firecrackers, and stole your dad’s lucky
charm—the gold coin he claimed he found when he was a kid. Course, your grandpa
told us the story of how your dad stole the coin from him, so I guess we were
just continuing in the family tradition.
When we traded that coin for some
drugs, well, I think our luck disappeared, and we have suffered for our
addictions. The drugs stole our dreams, our pride, our conscious, and
eventually, turned us into monsters. Whatever we did while we were using was a manifestation
of the drugs. I did a lot of things I’m not proud of, and my hope is that
people will forgive me, because it was the drugs calling the shots, not me.
Chad, I want you to know that I
love you, and forgive you for the things you did under the influence. What I
hold on to is the memory of two rag muffin boys, a Mutt and Jeff team, running
free in a field of daises, playing cowboys and Indians, smearing mud on their
faces and putting feathers in their hair.
I love you bro,
Harold Siga
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