Dear Wigleaf,

In the spring we trimmed the apple trees to shape a space that now in summer is a leafy little grotto. I have taken to writing all my postcards here. My son sits with me writing with chalk on a flagstone, word after word that he quickly erases with a swipe of his small hand. My wife is calling from inside the house, and although I do not know what she is saying there is a shape to the sound of her voice that I recognize, and I know that she is alright, that I do not need to hurry inside, because I will speak with her soon, in the early evening perhaps. It is the second time today I've seen such a shape. This morning, while driving in the road, a man came shouting after the car, waving his arms and trying to tell me something. I tried to read his lips in the rearview mirror, but perhaps because the message was backwards, or because the message was closer than it appeared, I could not make it out, and yet that reassuring shape was in the distant sound of it, and so I hoped it would come to me later, perhaps in the afternoon, while sitting in this grotto, writing you this postcard.