Dear Wigleaf:

Who decides on the color of things? The bureaucratic blue and yellow of our town's recycling bins? The trying-too-hard yellow of daffodils? The suicide gray of gravel? There's a new dog named Bella, and then there's my landlord who is so happy to have someone to talk to. There's a dip in the driveway that fills when it rains. The pool of water is positioned perfectly beneath where the driver's side door opens. Splash. I joined the St. Louis Botanical Gardens and they gave me an umbrella. I skipped yoga. I cancelled a dinner engagement. I should call my mother. This is what we call spring.

love,

Valerie





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Read VV's "A Domestic Interlude."

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