Dear Wigleaf,

Flight 85 from Abuja is a right ribbon, it is. After a week of out-running malaria mosquitoes, this fizzy water could be my transcendence. From up here, the bad news comes at a delay and full of hiccups. Tell me something good. Something to chisel on marble. Something I can knit into an inspirational wall hanging and feel that surge of "YES!" I first felt when you told me and I started knitting.

Up here, I can see all the stitches in the fields. I can see the peaks that cut into lakes. These clouds, upside-down, look as friendly as a unicorn with a virgin—when we all know that can't be true. Friendly clouds, that is. No such thing. I try not to watch the minutes change and think about how the plane holds itself together at each tick. More fizzy water needed.

Isn't it funny how at a distance, stories tend to swell or contract?

I wish I were knitting with you right now, on the couch, in front of the blue TV. We could knit this entire postcard in miniscule yet clear handwriting. Do you still have your magnifying glass?



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Read her story.

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