Ma cherie, ma belle, ma vie,

Every time I sit down to write you, it hits me anew that I am writing to an inhabitant of Mars. I'm not going to be taking this down to the post box on a pleasant walk; I'll be driving over to the space agency to give it to some space geek with an IQ as big as the distance between us, and I'll leave with everyone looking at me funny because I'm a different kind of geek, all the while wondering if my letter will be lost under a proof of some obscure thing involving ducks and wormholes before it makes it to the scanners. Before it makes it to Mars.

Mars. We've all seen the pictures, but what does it feel like? Empty? If you kick at the ground, what does the not-soil do? How much energy do you need to heat the greenhouses? And what are you growing there? Sparse tundra grasses, or are you trying for our intense winter plants? And about your sunlight problem…can't you make window? Skylights, if you will? Spending a little time under those would do you all some good. But I look up at my writing and se the myriad question marks, so enough Mars. You want Earth, so I'll give you Earth.

I'm sure you can tell—you know me too well—that the kids are absolutely harrowing. But even as you read this and imagine their absolute insanity, I can see through all this space that you have that smile because you know I forgive them. Finals are coming up and I know their nerves are fraying.

Dylan's getting another divorce. You can always tell; he starts listening to the Everly Brothers (talk about vintage) non-stop. Curious habit. This divorce number…guess. He's only 38, and already he's divorced so many times. Soon he'll end up like that guy's father from the old movie you made me sit through, Made of Honour? "Here goes number 9." "Ah, this is 10, sir," the servant-guy says. Not really a servant though, more like assistant? Well, anyway.

We go to the mountains this week-end, him and I. He came into my room a few days ago and said, "How do mountains sound?" That's Dylan; half a thought to every sentence. I think he's trying to escape Darla, forget about her. But really, Dylan & Darla? No wonder they couldn't stay together. Anyway, I wish you were coming with us; it would be nice to have a conversation outside of the event horizon. There's a reason I don't teach physics.

So whatever happened to Arbour Day? Do you even remember what day it was? Or the spelling of the holiday? Maybe it's actually Arboar and it's been so long we don't remember? How…sad, cherie, that we no longer marvel at this fantastic blue planet, the most hospitable that we know of, providing everything we ever could hope for. Of course, now we've been destroying it for some time, since the Industrial Revolution, in fact. Mankind has always had such fantastic potential for destruction. Imagine what alien species may think of us? But you know, everyone assumes they'd be superior and lofty; what if they were like us? Or worse? What if they were like the Daleks? I bet the Daleks never had global warming, though.

Ah, cherie, you're right that I just ramble on. I'm sorry; you don't need a lesson on Earth or the conspiracy theories of a high school biology teacher (did I tell you the one about Venus?), although they're not actually theories because they're not supported be fact—

But you know, maybe I should teach physics after all; I'd be able to show the desolation of other planets in comparison to our. Of course, then I'd be stuck with that damn cat. In any case, I have to finish this off soon.

I tell you, if I could, I'd send you a jar of dirt, or a potted flower, but I wouldn't want to introduce foreign species into the environment (we all know how that went with the rabbits in Australia). I'd send a can of seawater or a worm (you're a bad influence, cherie—every time I see those worms washed up on the sidewalks I pick them up—all wriggly and writhing as if they don't want saving—and run for dirt. You know, forget evolution, or anything.) Or may a fish. Do you remember those fish I had that wouldn't die? Even when we cut off their food? And put bleach in the water? Although that was more curiosity and Dylan, for which I won't forgive him. Bleach! Bleached fish! And if it didn't defy various laws, I'd send a jar of sunlight. If only, if only; but whoever got anywhere with that?

I shall remain faithfully rooted as your lifeline, then. Have fun on Mars (God, the thought's unbelievable).

xoxo