Dearest Papa,
Your beautiful, hearty laugh. It disappears with each dying sunset. And now I fear it will be gone forever, with the flapping white canvas of the ship. Slowly diminishing away with each roll of a wave. The flowers I've placed one your grave will slowly disintegrate, with no one their to gently place a fresh vase whenever they dry out. With each day, I will gradually be forgotten. Forgotten from my town, forgotten from my loved ones, forgotten from Germany. "Maybe," Mama promises, "maybe Germany will forget you. But maybe, just maybe, America will remember you."
I hold her words close to my heart, just like you always told me to.
-Marta