Dear Wigleaf,

Yesterday I thought of you while making egg salad. It was the kind you like, with celery seed and full chunks (none of that blended bullshit). Do you remember when we ate it on the bench behind my grandfather's house? He was in the kitchen yelling about putting the boat in the water. We pulled green onions from his garden and dunked them in ice then chewed some before mixing the rest in the salad. I never knew you were an egg person.

My grandfather's bird that he named after himself sends his regards. Little Johnny is two now and yellow as a lemon. He sits on that ladder in his cage and makes a ruckus, stares at the glass grapes on the coffee table. My grandfather says he likes fried fish but that remains to be seen. If you'll join me next summer we can confirm it.

For now, be good.


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Read MA's story.

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