The Siege of Portland in the Year of Our Lord 2025

Santa Fe, New Mexico
October, 2050


Nicholas,


It has been thirty years since your last words reached me, carried not by the post but by rumor, song, and memory. For years I cursed you, as Miriam cursed Moses for his Ethiopian wife, and I held myself wrapped tight in the cloak of judgment, stiff with bitterness. I thought to shame you with my silence, to bury you beneath the weight of my righteousness.


But time is a patient teacher, and life — oh, life has ways of prying open even the hardest of hearts. Somewhere along the years of widowhood without a widow’s right, of stern prayers that yielded no comfort, I laid aside the staff of a prophetess and took up the chalice of a pilgrim. I traveled. I tasted. I danced.


Yes, Nicholas — I danced. First timidly, then with abandon. Flamenco under the hot Spanish sun, tango in Buenos Aires with strangers who held me close without shame. I let music lead me where sermons never could. I tasted too: the sweetness of figs ripened on Sicilian hills, the fire of chilies in Oaxaca, the silken touch of sashimi in Tokyo. The body, I discovered, is not only a snare of sin but a vessel of wonder.


You called me once to leave the narrow path. I would not follow you then. Yet I have walked my own way to the valley of delights, and though it is not yours, it is mine. I no longer write with icy anger, but with a warmth that astonishes even me.


I do not ask forgiveness, nor do I grant it. What is done is done. But I will say this: you were not wrong to seek more than granola, more than silence, more than fear. If I was once the voice of judgment, let this letter be the voice of release.


Wherever you are, Nicholas, may the music still find you.


Clara
 
Portland, Oregon
November, 2050


Señora Clara,


Your letter reached my hands only days before Nicholas’s passing. I read your words aloud at his bedside as his breath grew shallow, and though he could no longer speak, a smile flickered across his face. I believe he heard you. I believe he carried your journey with him into his last sleep.


He was a man of contradictions — soldier and rebel, stern in command yet easily moved by music, bound by vows yet drawn to freedom. For all these years, I stood beside him: first as teacher of a dance, later as companion in a struggle, and at last as the keeper of his hand in the twilight of age. He never ceased to speak your name with reverence, Clara. You were his beginning, just as I was his long road.


Your confession of discovery — of dances, of flavors, of the sweetness of the world — touched me deeply. You and I were cast as rivals once, but time has revealed us as sisters of a kind. We both had to learn, each in her own season, that the body is not a prison, nor the senses snares, but rather doorways to joy. How beautiful that you, too, found your way to the dance floor, to the table of delights, to the laughter that heals.


I mourn him as you do, though differently. And I thank you, Clara, for sharing the truth of your own transformation. It brings me comfort to know that in the end, he was not alone in believing that life is more than fear and judgment — that even you, who once condemned him, came to sip from the same cup.


May your remaining years be full of music, Clara. And when your own time comes, may you and Nicholas meet again not in stern silence, but in rhythm and in joy.


With sisterly affection,
Maria
 
Santa Fe, New Mexico
December, 2050


Dearest Maria,


Your letter reached me like a soft hand upon my shoulder — not the hand of reproach, but of kinship. I wept to read that my words were read aloud to Nicholas in his final days, and that he left this world with a smile. For so long I feared that bitterness had been the last bond between us. Now I know that even at the end, there was a thread of love unbroken.


It is a strange thing, is it not? You and I, cast as rivals, divided by jealousy and judgment, now finding ourselves sisters in sorrow and in memory. You kept him in life when I could not, and for that I owe you a debt beyond words. I once thought you a thief of hearts, but now I see you were his companion for the long road, and I am glad he did not walk it alone.


I rejoice, too, that you understand my journey. That you, who once led him into dances I feared, can see that I too found my way to joy — not in his arms, but in the world’s vast embrace. You and I both learned that life is not meant to be lived in the shadow of judgment, but in the light of laughter, of taste, of rhythm.


Let us then put aside the old enmities. Let us remember him not as husband or lover, but as a man who, in his flawed and wandering way, showed us both that life could be larger, freer, more beautiful than the narrow paths we once clung to.


I send you my blessing, Maria, not as a rival but as a sister. May the music that sustained him continue to guide us both until the day we, too, are called to join him.


With peace and affection,
Clara
 
The torrid love affair between Maria and Clara will echo through the halls of history.
 
Nick Sacpi is a minor character in this saga.

I do hope the boys enjoy their time in Portland. The Antifans are a wily crew, but I'm sure the boys will handle them fine. The foodie and music scenes are strong. It is not a bad place to be billeted. Although there will be unwholesome temptations from thangs like hip hop, gentlemen's clubs and cannabis..
 
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I don't mean to be overly negative. Portland does offer some very wholesome diversions as well. Hiking, fishing, river walks, mountain day-trips, cultural events, bookstores, coffee culture, and some of the best parks of any U.S. city. And an incredible food scene, and great one too for crafts beers and spirits. I hope the boys avail themselves of these wholesome diversions.
 
Strangely enough, Portland, Maine is a fantastic food city as well. But that would be another siege story involving lobstah. Afaik, our boys are not being sent to Portland, Maine. But maybe they should be. There are plenty of lefties in Portland, Maine. Some with guns. And it would give me another excuse to clutter up these boards with my underappreciated threads.
 
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It should be noted that East Coast Antifans are much tougher and more competent than West Coast Antifans. It is a good thang that our young troops get to face the JV first.
 
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