Dear Wigleaf,

I write to you from the other side of rain. In North Carolina, we've had the wettest season in years. We went from a dusty cough of a summer headlong into months of downpour. But today, I'm propped at an outdoor table watching people come and go from a patisserie, thinking about sacrifice and solitude and need. Little girls clomping in rain boots and tutus. Dogs nuzzled into bags or sprawled out waiting for their people to burst forth with boxes of spun sugar and ganache, celebrating weather, celebrating the first buds of spring. Pause for delight. There's a place for two right here. I try not to think about all the daughters I'll never have. I focus on the raspberry jam catching me in the jaw. Yesterday's cheese plate. Smokey Asher blue. Crystals in the gouda. Green olives packed in oil. The crunch of Maldon salt. I push thoughts of future lack aside. I am well fed. I have books and words and whispers flung toward you.

Love Always,
Beth




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Read Beth Gilstrap's story.

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