Dearest Donald,
It has been two days since you last visited me. I know that will seem like nothing to you. Your hours have been spent engaging in important affairs of state, studying policy tweets, and guarding the nation from imbalanced cable news coverage. But I have done nothing but pine for your return.
I know that some say you spend too much time with me. I heard a dreadful man—probably one of those Democrats you say always slice left—on the tee to the Fifth Hole sneering that he’d like a job that let him spend so much time on the links. But our time together is always too brief for me. You rush in—the roar of your secret service vans cresting my grand drive, your gentle jests and preparatory “locker room talk” as you pull up your khakis, the creak of your golf cart as you settle in. You are with me a few short hours. And to any who would call that long enough, I would say that time does more than fly when you are in bliss. And when you know the ecstasy of having the president of the United States of America trod over your soddy flanks and tease the private creases of your sand traps and quietly tap his ball out of your rough without taking any penalty, time moves so fast that it seems to end before it can begin.
Life after your motorcade disappears is just the opposite—bereft and slow. True, I have your portraits to gaze at when you are away. There are so many in the clubhouse, and I can beguile hours asking myself if I prefer the image of you striking a soaring drive that adorns the bar room or the picture of you in satin robe and inviting grin that you keep on the inside of your locker door. And I know you think of me, too. You always say such kind things when you come to me: that you never wanted to leave me, that you’ve only been thinking of me through all those cabinet meetings and state dinners. I can trust in that, can’t I?
I worry. I worry so much because my attachment is so strong. I know you’ve been to other courses. (I won’t tell you what I think about that Trump International Golf Club in West Palm Beach, Florida!) I sometimes even dread that you will take up with another game entirely. I picture your manly bulk crouched over a ping pong table, and I weep for grief.
If this letter looks wet, it is because of those tears. I have my low moments every day. I can’t help it. True, my sprinklers are programmed to run daily at 5:00 am, regardless of drought conditions or pesky EPA regulations, but it is really my grief propelling those arcs of glinting liquid.
At my worst moments, I think that I am only a business convenience for you—that you are only using me to help you make deals. Or maybe, and this is the very lowest thought of all, maybe I am just a tax offset. But when you stride to the first tee and shake your rump in that way you do before starting your swing, my doubts are banished.
Do not leave me in despair! Come to me! We were made for each other. Let armies march and police beat protestors and the nation’s credit crumble to dust, but let us be together.
As far as I am concerned, the world can burn (you won’t do anything to stop it, I know), as long as you’re with me.
Yours, heart, soul, and putting green,
The Trump National Golf Club in Sterling, Virginia