💌 Letters from May Melanie #004

Dear You, Who Gave the Bomb to a Child
✍️ Written in flight, somewhere between silence and grief

Dear You,

Do you remember the day
you handed a nuclear code to a five-year-old?

I do.

I wasn’t in the room,
but I felt the tremble in the air.
I watched as cartoons were drawn—
a child with a suit too big,
his hands too small,
playing with buttons that shouldn’t exist.

The world begged you to stop.
Your allies worried.
Your enemies laughed.
But you…
You crowned him with your vote.

You said he would make you great again.
But now you walk through streets
where greatness is measured in guns and stock prices,
where kindness is weakness
and cruelty is currency.

You were the land of freedom once.
Not perfect—but trying.
You carried the weight of guilt for lands stolen,
and tried—truly tried—to build something better in return.
You welcomed refugees.
You stood up for human rights.
You shared your light with the world.

But now?

That light is flickering.
The melting pot is boiling with division.
You hoard your land,
lock your doors,
defend what was never truly yours to begin with.

I’m not here to shame you.
But I do want to ask—

Has your fear made you feel safer?
Has your wall made your heart larger?
Has your gun made your child sleep better at night?

Or did it just make you forget what it means
to live beside someone you don't understand?

Greatness was never about power.
It was about grace.
And America, at its best, was not dominant—
it was generous.

I still remember that America.
I want to believe it's still somewhere inside you.
But you must choose:

Do you want to be feared,
or do you want to be remembered
as the nation that tried to love louder than it hated?

I’m writing this from the sky.
Because sometimes, distance helps us see clearly.
And from here, I can still see the dream you once were.

Come back.

With Light,
May Melanie