Dear Wigleaf,

I am writing to you from the third floor of a nest I helped make, which is in fact really a house for humans to live in, which is in fact really a hiding place. Outside of it is a country of people whose language I'm not comfortable in. I loved French before I had to speak it because of course I did and because that's just how these things work. Now, French reminds me of having to speak in front of people as a child. Or of all the instruments I picked up then finally abandoned after admitting I could not hear the difference between the sounds in any way that made sense enough to me so that I could play and listen all at once. I admit that it was a relief to be rid of the trumpet, with its collection of tepid spit, in particular. All this to say I'm glad I must send you words written down in the place of sounds. That way I can tell you that I'm thinking of you and that I hope you're doing ok and that I probably, definitely love something about you very much. If it were left up to speaking, I might only smile as we passed, when what I really mean is all of this.

Best,
Kelsey




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Read KI's story.

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