Our Letters, Week by Week
What I wrote him, what he wrote me, June to September 1999

I wrote Ramiro every single day until we left for graduation, 84 letters in all. He wrote me ten, plus two to his abuela and one to the dog. (Really. It said "Good boy. Guard the house.") I'm not putting his letters up word for word, because he'd never forgive me. These are my summaries, week by week, so you can see what the rhythm of it is like from home.

Week 1: June 7
Me: Wrote every night, even though I had no address to send them to yet. Kept them in a shoebox. Told him about his sister's last week of school and how the dog sleeps in front of his door.
Him: The phone call at one in the morning. Fifteen seconds. That was it.

Week 2: June 14
Me: The form letter with his address came Wednesday. I mailed the whole shoebox, numbered one through nine. The lady at the post office knows me now.
Him: Nothing yet. I checked the mailbox four times a day anyway.

Week 3: June 21
Me: The Spurs won the championship, and I wrote him about the whole neighborhood honking. Sebastian finished his whole summer reading list, which is a miracle, and I said so.
Him: First real letter! Five lines. He's fine. The food is OK. Send stamps. Tell Grandma he's going to church on Sundays. His handwriting looked like he wrote it on his knee in the dark, which I found out later is exactly what happened.

Week 4: June 28
Me: Sent stamps, envelopes and a picture of the dog in a bandanna.
Him: His voice is gone from yelling "Aye, sir!" all day. He says the other recruits from Texas stick together. He learned to make his rack, which is his bed. I've been asking him to make his bed for nineteen years.

Week 5: July 5
Me: Our first Fourth of July without him. Sebastian did the fireworks and nobody lost a finger. I wrote him that, and that the brisket was dry without him there to complain about it.
Him: Passed his swim qualification. Asked for more pictures of everybody. Underlined "everybody."

Week 6: July 12
Me: Told him the high school football team started two-a-days and his old coach asked about him. Renee got her first job, at the snow cone stand.
Him: No letter. I worried. A mom from my e-mail group said her son's company was getting ready to move up to Camp Pendleton and they were too busy to breathe. She was right.

Week 7: July 19
Me: Short, happy letters. Things the dog did. His tía's new grandbaby.
Him: Two letters on the same day. They're at Camp Pendleton for the rifle range. He sounded happy for the first time. He said the hills there are the biggest things he's ever seen, which, coming from Corpus Christi, I believe.

Week 8: July 26
Me: Sent a card from all of us for qualification day.
Him: He qualified as a sharpshooter! He was a little mad it wasn't expert. I wrote back that I can't even hit the trash can from the couch.

Week 9: August 2
Me: Took the kids school shopping. Sebastian grew an inch. Told Ramiro he'd better hurry home before his little brother passes him.
Him: Field training. Tired. Feet hurt. He said he thinks about my enchiladas when they're hiking. I cried in the kitchen and then made enchiladas.

Week 10: August 9
Me: Booked the motel for graduation. Told him we're all coming, Grandma too.
Him: Still at Camp Pendleton. One short letter: "Four weeks, Ma." He'd started counting too.

Week 11: August 16
Me: School started. I'm back on the radio at 4:45 with my buses. Wrote him about every pothole.
Him: Nothing. That was the Crucible. He told me about it at Family Day: no sleep, hardly any food, hiking all night, and at the end, a hill they call the Reaper. Then the emblem. Then "Marine."

Week 12: August 23
Me: Hurricane Bret came ashore south of us Sunday night. We stayed put, lost power for a day, and the dog hid under the bed. Monday morning I wrote him: everybody is fine, the house is fine, don't worry about a thing. Good news only. That's the rule.
Him: The letter I'd been waiting three months for. Back in San Diego, final drill coming, and the first line said, "Ma, I'm a Marine." He said his drill instructor told them they might, possibly, someday, be worth something, and he wrote it like it was the nicest thing anyone ever said to him.

Week 13: August 30
Me: Didn't mail a thing. Packed the car instead.
Him: One last letter, mailed the week before graduation and delivered after we'd left for California. Renee brought it in from the mailbox when we got home. It said he couldn't wait to see us, and to bring Grandma a cushion because the stands are hard. Then at the bottom, in different ink, like he'd added it later: "Ma, thank you for writing every day. Some of the guys didn't get anything." I keep it in my Bible.

So that's the advice, moms: write every day. Even the boring stuff. Especially the boring stuff. Somebody far away needs to hear about the dog.