Dear Wigleaf,

I am writing to you as a big bundle of sick, in my bed. A big, big bundle. It's not great, but it's okay. There are postcards and sitcoms and long johns to keep me company. My room is dark, but to be bright, I'm trying to remind myself of everyone who isn't sick. I'm writing letters to them. To you, to my brother Drew, to all of the runners and sunners who pass and bask outside my window. It's a beautiful window, really, it is. If only you could see it. Try to imagine, if you can, a whole world and everyone in it. I'll write letters to you all, if only someone will write back. That's all I could ever really ask.

with all due respect,

Rebecca H




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Read RH's story.

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