Daily story, February 3, 2025
I still have all of your letters. They stuck to my hair and my clothes; I breathed them in; they drifted up into the clouds where I am told nothing is forgotten. I tipped them out onto the soil. I cut the flowers that grew, kept them for a week, put them on the compost heap and back onto the soil. I grew tomatoes and ate them with so much black pepper you would have laughed at me. I coughed up a little piece of your goodbye. Sometimes those little drawings you made in the margins fall in the rain. Your words must be spread all across the world by now, so that I have them with me wherever I go.