Jacob, I don’t understand you. You met an angel and you throttled him. You fought against the silk and marble being using your own soft, yielding flesh. You held on to that angel until he promised to bless you. I need you. I need to fight for my own life.
I see you, wrestling like lion clubs. I hear you encourage each other to fight with more tenacity, to win. No one says these things to me. I am urged to read more, to write with more fluency, to put facts across more succinctly.
When I was taught drawing room etiquette, you were probably rolling around in the mud with your friends. When I was taught how to make the right kind of compliment to the mother of the woman I am supposedly going to marry, you were spitting chewing gum onto the floors of shopping malls. Whilst I spent my time trying to become a charming conversationalist and an intellectual, you were lost in boyhood dreams of football championships, video games and what you’ll teach your children when they grow up.
I have written you letters, but you will never find them.
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