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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
- - -
Read Beth Gilstrap's story.
W i g l e a f
04-25-19
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