Dear Son, I'm writing this slow 'cause I know you can't read fast. We don't live where we did when you left. Your dad read in the paper that most accidents happen within twenty miles of home

Dear Son,

I'm writing this slow 'cause I know you can't read fast.

We don't live where we did when you left. Your dad read in the paper that most accidents happen within twenty miles of home, so we moved.

I can't send you the address just yet because the last family that lived here took the house numbers with them so they wouldn't have to change their address.

This place is nice, though. There's even a washing machine! I put in a load of clothes last week, pulled the chain, and haven’t seen them since.

Your sister got herself a new job. She has 500 men under her—she’s mowing the cemetery.

Your uncle Billy drowned last week in a whiskey vat at the brewery. Some of his coworkers tried to pull him out, but he fought them off bravely. They cremated him, and it took three days to put out the fire.

Your cousin Bob is still in the army. He’s stationed at a camp that has 500 men but only two latrines. He says they call it "Stand and Wait Base."

I’d send you some money, but I already sealed the envelope.

Love,
Mom

P.S. If you don’t get this letter, let me know, and I’ll send another one.