Dear Wigleaf,

November in Bellingham and everything feels cracked and prone to shatter, news clattering along like the worst loud squeal from a 1980s Peavey in your friend's garage, mountains losing their snow, fire-licked edges of our forests now dead zones struggling to find their way back.

Even the bay, still this morning like a stone licked flat, seals lolling among the dwindling chum, feels close to cracking.

I think about the small things that sear us together, the quiet work of cutting peonies to the ground and quilting them over with leaves.

The giant Hunter's Moon pulls us outside. Our telescope renders a blurry orb, but the edges are sharp, craters like cracked teeth. We're glad we didn't miss a night like that. The moon is holding it together, a smooth bass line in your favorite song.
 
The first time my daughter saw a planet through that black optical giant, she ran down the street at midnight scream-singing Neptune, Neptune, Neptune.

I think of the smallest things saving us—the ladybug the cats spare, a small stone that holds the beach together in the storm, the one perfect cursive capital G in a handwritten note, the warm palm of someone you love outstretched. I know there's an arrow on the gas gauge that tells you which side your tank is on, and even though I already know this, I still look for that little white arrow doing its small, tidy job so perfectly.

With love,

Frances