Dear Wigleaf,

Last time I wrote you, the stars were falling. In some ways, they've never stopped.

A few years ago, you could lie back in the summer grass and behold the universe. You could point your finger at a star and summon it. A star might dislodge itself and join you, illuminating all the shadows.

But what if wanting has a cost? What if something fixed and distant, ripped loose by our wishes, comes searing through our roofs?

Oh, Wigleaf, it's grown so dark. Since I last wrote you, it's like the stars fell and buried themselves deep under the summer grass where my daughters once bickered over the best spot to sit.

Remember that, Wigleaf? When the only thing our kids might lose was their baby teeth? 

Now my girls need something bright to hang their hopes on. They've washed and washed and washed their hands of wishes. I can't ask them to crane their necks looking for promises in dying satellites.

No, our work is harder, closer.

Get a spoon, get a shovel. Come help us, Wigleaf. You can hold the flashlight.

Let's dig down and find the wonder we've had to bury so deep beneath us.

I can almost feel the heat of the earth where we stand.




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Read RM's story.

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