Dear Wigleaf,

I had a dream last night that a skyrocket crashed into the apple tree and set the whole garden ablaze. When I woke up, cramped tight like an Atlantic jackknife, I tugged at the blinders and peeked out the window. The moon was barely there, only the faintest impression, like a jilted femme fatale fleeing in a hurry and leaving a thin silk scarf behind. The snow was finally all gone. Everything still looks dead, but there's a sun now, and there's a crisp blue sky that makes me dream of birdhood, that makes me crave orange creamsicles and water guns and flip-flops. You used to have that neon green pair, God, they were hideous, half covered in duct tape just to keep them alive. I bet they're still in your basement somewhere, forgotten under an old towel or desk lamp. You really never knew how to let go of anything.

Write soon,

Thora