Dear Wigleaf,

I write to ask—this yellow mansion surrounded by gardens, lizards warming on the paths and stones, deer grazing on the lawn at night, the five of us with keys haunting the balconies, dancing in the ballroom (I never did, but should have), the concerts outside on weekends, Chick Corea, the Cronos String Quartet, Harry Belafonte, the sound of the piano when the composer's window was open, the wisteria, the full moon, the upright piano in my matching yellow guesthouse, I tried to play Chopin's Ballade in G Minor but wasn't good enough anymore, reading Wittgenstein, Nietzsche, I was dating a philosopher, All mousetraps of the heart have once again been set!, he was difficult, my philosopher, the four-poster bed, a single phone in a booth outside, 1996, my sister had a miscarriage, the stream in the woods, the path up the mountain lined with small white flowers that opened at dawn and closed at dusk, a satyr carved into the fountain of the Temple of Love, the limes the painter next door picked to make gin & tonics, but they weren't limes, they were unripe lemons, the size and green of limes—was it all a dream?

In gratitude for your existence,
Sharon