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didn't have a stamp or way to mail it on the road. And soon I will be done with this one, too. Sara said just bring it over to her mother, who could mail it when she went to town.
So, Mamá, I will say goodbye. As you can see, I followed your advice and I have written you not one but two long letters! And you were right. I have felt less alone as I write them. I think I will keep writing letters every day of my life.
     
     
Con amor and with love,
Mari
     
     
P.S. Mamá, I am almost too upset to write! I will not be mailing you these letters. Instead, I am to keep them until you come back.
What happened was that Papá saw me writing and asked who I was writing to. When I said you, he got that pained, strange look on his face again, but he did not say anything.
Then, last night when he came in from the evening milking and I told him I had found a way to mail you these letters at our old address, he looked scared.
“Let us converse, my daughter,” he said, nodding toward the bedroom he shares with my tíos. When Ofie and Luby got up to follow us— my little tail, I sometimes call them—Papá shook his head. “This is a private conversation,” he explained, shutting the door behind us. He sat on the bed and patted a place beside him.
“Mari, it is not a good idea for you to send those letters,” he began. Then, very gently, he explained how we are not legal in this country. How Mexicans getting mail might alert la migra to raid a certain address.
“But, Papá, a lot of Americans have Spanish names! Look at Luby. Look at Ofie!”
Papá just kept shaking his head. I think that having to live secretly for years in this country has made him imagine danger where it doesn't even exist. “You can save them until you see your mother again,” he said. “How wonderful it will be for her to sit down and read them over and know all the things that happened while she was away.” For the first time in a while, my father's voice was soft and warm and his eyes glistened. I don't think he allows himself to miss you as much as he really does, Mamá, or we would all be too sad to continue, no matter how many jokes our uncle Felipe tells us.
“Promise me, my treasure, please,” Papá said, taking my face in his hands. He looked so worried! “For everyone's safety, you will not mail those letters.”
What could I do, Mamá? I couldn't go behind his back, and I didn't want to upset him by arguing with him. “Te lo prometo,” I promised.
He gave me a grateful smile and kissed myforehead tenderly. “Thank you, my daughter, for understanding.”
But I do not understand, Mamá. Never in a million years will I understand my father's fears.
I have to close or I will wash away the words in this letter with my tears.



NAMELESS FARM
    “I think it might be a good idea for you to go next door and introduce yourself,” Mom greets Tyler at breakfast. It is his first morning back at the farm after being away. Tyler has missed the farm terribly, but one thing he has not missed is his mother's good ideas.
    “Mom,” Tyler groans, “I already met them!” Early this morning before breakfast, Tyler slipped into the barn to check on Alaska, his favorite show cow. The three new Mexican workers were there hard at work, but they looked up, curious, when Tyler entered. He waved hello and then hung out, even helping one of them, who can't be any older than Ben, put the milker on the skittish Oklahoma.
    “I meant say hi to the girls,” his mom explains.
    Tyler puts his head in his hands so he doesn't have to see anything but his bowl of cereal. Too late he remembers his mother has told him this is rude. Horses have blinkers, not humans. But sometimes, Tyler hates to tell her, sometimes he would just as soon see less, not more, of the world around him, a world full of accidents, bad luck, and Mom's good ideas.
    But maybe because he just got home yesterday, his mom doesn't say anything about his blinkers. Instead she starts in on the sappy stuff