Aletta,
Do not tell Mother I said this, but the first night here I could not sleep for the quiet. You would think the canopy is silent. It is not. The matzu creak all night like an old house settling, and the walkways knock against the trunk when the wind comes up, and somewhere below a trainer coughs and swears and goes back to sleep. At home I knew every sound. Here I lay awake learning them.
I am fed. I am not injured, whatever you have decided to imagine. Do not picture me broken in a corner somewhere. Picture me with sore shoulders and a bruise on my hip in the shape of Yamatake, which I earned honestly by being too slow.
I have learned that I am not the strongest here, and that this matters less than I thought it would. There is a boy, taller than the instructor, which is not difficult, who has been showing me what he was taught before he came. He does not make me feel stupid for not knowing it. That is rarer than skill.
There is another who says almost nothing. He stands near the Tanjin in the evenings where the light does not quite reach and watches everyone come and go. I have decided not to mind it. If he is counting us, I intend to be worth counting.
Tell me what has grown in your garden. Tell me if the seller with the bad cart came back. Tell me something ordinary, I do not care how small, and write it long.
I will be home when I am home. Keep my window open the way you do.
Your sister, Lorelei
