EDITOR’S NOTE: In and effort to entertain the newsroom, another photographer and I (who are now required to work from home) have begun exchanging letters from the frontline of the Coronavirus Pandemic. I share them with you so that you may feel the love.
My Dearest Mr. Daquano,
It has been an entire fortnight since I last saw your smiling face (and somewhat mis-shapen nose), but I feel that I am getting into the rhythm of this quarantine nonsense.
I think of you often. Twice this weekend, as a matter of fact.
I have developed an affinity for the elderly couple outside the wire, and I think, they with me. This Saturday, they worked me like a slave, but I managed to finish all their tasks in time for a nutritious lunch.
You know bread and other staples are scarce at Forward Operating Base Frat House, so I took my excursion as an opportunity to reconnoiter more supplies for the men.
Outside the wire, dried goods stores are filled — shelf after shelf — with all manner of food and drink. Shopping there after documenting the desolate store shelves here was almost like leaving a North Korean grocery and walking right into a Costco two days before Thanksgiving.
I thought of you again, Sunday, before I began much-needed shop time. It had been too long since my last attempt at lathery.
I set out early to make a bowl to hold the chocolate rations we sometimes get in the Frat House. So high were the shavings I scarcely could find some of my tools. And so thick the sawdust, that when I sneezed this morning, my nose shot a toothpick through the delicate handkerchief you gifted me to remember you by.
Sadly, it no longer holds your intoxicating scent.
If it is not too bold to ask, in your next letter, could you please send one of your sweaty wife-beaters so that I may never forget your most precious aroma.
Sgt. T. Polisher
1st News Division