Freedom Writers

My first Pen Pal was both black and white, weighed near a ton and loved shrimp. Our relationship was one-sided. I never wrote her; but, for fifteen bucks a year, she sent updates to my family’s rusted mailbox detailing her travels through the Atlantic Ocean. One year, she was spotted by a fishing boat off the Novia Scotian coast. Another, she had whale watchers convinced she was swimming with a calf. Her name was Shred, in deference to the damaged condition of her fluke. My annual contribution – tax deductable, nonetheless, though this was irrelevant as a middle-schooler – contributed to research that supported the preservation of whales. Whatever that meant.