Dear Wigleaf,

The snow. The snow. I wake up to snow. I sleep to snow piling at my windowsill. I haven't left the apartment in days. It's hard to wade through this weather without you by my side. I'm proud of you, of what you've become, of how far you've traveled, but I miss your warmth next to me. I dreamt last night we built an igloo out of blocks of ice you cut with a machete. We invited our friends and neighbors inside to huddle with us. Our collective body heat caused the walls to melt slightly, and everything took on a slick sheen. I was lacquered in ice, and so were you, and we wore the frozen look of happiness I feel whenever we're together.

You're getting big and famous now. I saw it in a Google Alert, a minor article in a town newspaper. In the photograph, behind your smiling face, next to a suburban driveway, there was a palm tree. The caption said you lived there. Imagine that. You live where palm trees grow, however unnaturally. One of these days, you'll have to tell me about it. Did the tree come with the property? Or did you plant it there?

I woke up this morning and the weatherman said wearily, two more feet, or maybe just one—did it really matter? My neighbor knocked on the door and asked me for a cup of rice. I almost said no, but there are days when his dog's nails clicking above my ceiling are the only living noise I hear.

Anyway, I just wanted to say hello. Hello from where the snow never ends. I still have the mug you sent me from Tucson. I'd drink coffee from it, but you know what caffeine does to me.



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W i g l e a f                03-03-15                                [home]