Dear Wigleaf,

My father saw lights in the sky the other day. Three of them, each one a different shade of green. They moved in patterns, zipping ahead and looping back, an intricate game of tag that lasted several minutes before all three disappeared at once. He thinks it was aliens.

He told me this and then asked how you were. If you were coming over for dinner soon.

I didn't know what to tell him, so I lied. I said that you were on vacation, lying warm and drowsy on a beach somewhere. When I pictured it, I forgot for a moment how deep the bite of winter still is here, the flurries of snow we got just last week.

Maybe my lie isn't a lie at all. Maybe you are on the beach, sand sticking to the bottom of your feet, salt crusting the rim of your glass. Lime on your tongue and the roar of waves in your ears. I hope so.

The plant you bought for me before you left is dead, despite my best efforts.

Love, still,

Elliott




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Read EG's story.

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