Archive of Our Own ^beta

1am, 1 Jan 1953

Dear Dad,

Happy New Year. Time zones schmimezones. I hope you're sat up with a scotch and the usual crew down at Pat's, with a roaring fire and winning set of Scrabble tiles.

You know, my first New Year’s Eve here I couldn’t imagine being here for the next one. Now as we celebrate my third one spending time at the president’s pleasure, I can’t imagine not being here for the next one.

That’s the worst thing. You get used to it. I catch myself thinking things like 'we should do this for BJ’s next birthday,’ or looking forward to seeing the daisies on the hill in the spring: Like I want to still be here come spring. Or for BJ to still be here.

Of course that’s not really the worst thing. The worst thing is the senseless suffering and death, but there’s only so many times you can mention that.

As I said. You get used to it.

I don’t have any news for you. The past week, the past month, the past year, have been nothing but a blur of surgery, boredom and nausea. Sometimes I felt like I looked up and a week had gone past without my knowledge. I never know what day it is anymore- what does it matter if death comes after Sunday lunch or as a mid-week diversion? Other times it’s been Thursday forever.

I’m sorry, this is turning out to be a terribly maudlin letter. I hate to worry you, only I know it’d worry you more not to receive anything, and I think any letter I try to write at the moment will be like this. Hopefully next time I can tell you about the running around and moments of joy we manufacture for ourselves and mean it.

BJ sends his regards. I’m sure the others would too, but they’re all more sheets to the wind than a laundress in a typhoon at the moment. It takes a lot of cups of kindness yet here.

Go have a listen to that roaring sea for me, Dad, and hopefully this’ll all be times long since soon.

Hawkeye