Dear Trevor,

Thanksgiving? That means we’re near the end of November? Or you are, at least. I never would have guessed as much. For some reason, I thought it must be February or March by now.

What am I thankful for? I’m thankful for your letters. I devour them when they arrive. I’ve read them all a dozen times at least. Your quotes roll around in my mind like a bit of beach glass in the surf. Your words get less sharp and more luminous the more I think about them.

What else am I thankful for? Hmmm…I suppose I have friends here, if you could call them that. Carl is a sort of friend. But if he were gone tomorrow, I don’t think I’d miss him. He’s like a human end table. He serves a function, but one I could easily live without. Gordon isn’t any better, although I am thankful for his Latinisms. The other day, Martin, Gordon and I were gathered around a plate of Sung-Hee’s soggy French fries and Martin started raving about the poor quality of the food. Sung-Hee told him to shut up. Gordon said, “audacter calumniare, semper aliquid haeret,” which translates as, “Slander boldly, something always sticks.”

I’m definitely not thankful for Sung-Hee’s food. Is it better than nothing? Only in the sense that a rolled up ball of paper is more fun for a child than no toys at all.

Martin, that bitter man—I could do without him completely. I always think of him as a former city councilman. He is former. In the present, he is nothing but sourness in size 48 pants.

I’m not sure if I’m thankful for anything else, other than my memories. Memories are not enough.

Happy Thanksgiving.

Dad