Dear Maggie,
I don’t know when this war will end; probably the same moment the next one starts. By that logic, it’s like every day is a new war. In that case, I’m very excited that our grand-children will brag about me being in World War CCCXLVII. They’ll remember it because the halftime show was a disaster. I long for you in ways I dare not write, but sometimes discuss over breakfast. I know I have it around here somewhere, but what’s your name again?
Dear Paul,
Sorry it took me so long to reply, I’m exhausted from moving into your place. I couldn’t remember where your key was, so I had to crawl through a window! I felt silly at the time, mostly because I was still carrying the loveseat. Have you cut your hair?
Dear Maggie,
Yes, thanks for noticing. Don't forget, I only said you could use my place while yours is being fumigated for bugs. Please don’t wear my bath robe. You’ll stretch it out.
Dear Paul,
I can’t take much more of you being gone. I’d go stir crazy were it not for the constant effort of keeping bats out of the hole where that window used to be.
Dear Maggie,
It is with a heavy heart and long eyelashes that I must inform you that your fiancée, Paul, was mortally wounded during one of his tantrums about the effects of humidity on Jell-O. Also, he wanted to know if you’d mail him his baseball cards.
Respectfully yours,
Major Harlon Obberly
PS: I’m now told that it was saltines, not Jell-O, that Paul had a fit about. I apologize for any alarm that may have caused.