Dear Wigleaf,

I'm writing you from the old Mormon church that used to host my childhood dance recitals. The one on the corner of Water and Ocean. Today it hosts the funeral for a woman who raised me—a grandmother of sorts. One who raised so many of us.

She'd make the best peanut butter and honey sandwiches. Have you ever tried one? If you haven't, it's simple to make. Just like it sounds. Though, you should understand that it won't turn out quite like hers.

I remember when she taught me to write my name. I couldn't figure the shape of the a; it was too difficult. It would come out backwards, or with a long hanging tail like a q. She made me practice it over and over on that old elementary school paper with wide dotted lines.

I'm wondering—do you remember who first taught you to write?

I have to go now, Wigleaf. The funeral is over. Close family members are leaving in one long caravan up to Utah for the burial. The church provided them brown bag lunches for the road. I picture the sweet and sticky sandwiches inside. I picture her at the kitchen counter, her back to me, wearing her brown curly hair like a crown, and I can't help but smile.

With love,

Julia