Dear Wigleaf,

I am writing to you from suburbia.

No, not the song by the English synth-pop duo Pet Shop Boys (1986), but the actual tree-lined and streamlined master-planned community where I was raised. The hedges here are perfect squares, as are many of the people—as perhaps, much of the time these days, am I.

The streets have names like Rainbow Falls, Rolling Brook, and Sand Pebble. Morning Dew, Creekside, and Wandering Rill. A rill, it turns out, is a small stream. In German, as a name, it can mean "rich" or "powerful." Both of these sorts of people are surely living nearby, though I am neither.

Rill also makes me think of krill, the tiny crustaceans with bioluminescent organs (they glow in the dark!), who serve as oceanic snack treats for whales, seals, penguins, and other creatures of the Antarctic deep. Which, in turn, makes me nostalgic for a voyage I took to the frozen continent a few years ago, back when such quixotic journeys felt doable.

This letter has begun to wander far from its suburban starting point. As will I, once again, soon enough. But I'll miss this place, it surprises me to say, and all its dewy, pebbly, rill-y, well-manicured, synth-pop perfection.

Let's take a ride and run with the dogs tonight,

Matt