Minarchic Anti-Communist

My coworker's son, Ryo, was nine when he got sick. Leukemia. Eight months in a hospital room in Tokyo, behind a glass door. No outside. No school. Some months, not even his friends. He had one picture book. "The 50 States." He read it until the pages fell out. He told his mom, "When I get better, I want to see America." She didn't know if he would get better. So in January, she wrote one sentence in English and posted it online. "My son has never been to America and can't leave his hospital room. If you have time, could you send him a postcard from your state?" She hoped for ten. By April, there were 3,812. The nurses wiped every single one with alcohol before it went into his room. All 3,812. They said it was the best job they ever had. His mom taped a giant map of America to the wall and pinned each card to its state. Here's some of what America sent. Texas sent a postcard so big it didn't fit in the mailbox. Alaska sent a photo of a moose standing in someone's driveway. "This is my neighbor." Iowa sent a jar of dirt. Customs took it. The note made it: "Best dirt in the world. Ask anybody." Wisconsin sent cheese. Customs took it. The note made it: "We tried." Florida sent an orange. Customs took that too. "Sorry about the orange. Get well, buddy." Ryo's mom says somewhere in Japan, there's a customs officer who had the most American month of his life. New York sent a subway map. "If you ever get lost, yell. Somebody will help." Louisiana sent beads. Purple, green, and gold. Ryo wore them to chemo. Montana sent a photo of the sky. Just sky. "The whole state is the view." Minnesota sent one mitten. Just one. "The other one is waiting for you here. Come get it when you're better." Ryo slept holding that mitten for four months. Then there was a letter from Ohio. Shaky handwriting. "When I was nine, I spent a year in the hospital with polio. Strangers wrote to me. People I never met. I still have every letter. I'm 81 now. I've been waiting a long time to pass it on." That's the one his mom couldn't read out loud. She had to stop three times. By March, 49 states were on the wall. One was missing. Delaware. Every morning, Ryo asked, "Did Delaware come?" It came in April. Twenty-six letters at once, from a whole fourth-grade class. The first one said: "Sorry we're late. We're a small state." Ryo laughed so hard a nurse ran in to check on him. In May, he went home. He's ten now. Healthy. Back in school. The map is on his bedroom wall. He has one plan. He has saved 2,100 yen. About fourteen dollars. He's going to Minnesota to get the other mitten. America, you argue about everything. Pizza. Football. What to call soda. But when one sick little boy in Tokyo asked to see you, all fifty of you showed up. Each in your own ridiculous, beautiful way. Thank you for showing him America. He's coming for that mitten.