Your weekly letter came in today’s mail, scrawled on a pink paper garden dotted with violets.
When we first began this postal exchange, you were suffocating in the dark winter of depression, gasping for breath and praying for sunlight. Your writing shifted between thorny anger refusing to be subdued and pain flourishing relentlessly, overtaking everything else. Every week, I’ve shivered in the frigid air as I struggled though the ice-crusted nettle weeds killing the flowers and strangling hope to death.
But today, at the sight of new growth, I felt the promise of summer. Like crocuses pushing through the thawing earth, I see the seedlings of recovery and optimism in your note, straining toward the sun and ready to bloom. Were I a botanist, and could graph the tone and lightness emerging tentatively from your words on the page, my graph lines would climb slowly toward that place on the hill, where budding wildflowers and young green grasses sway in the spring breezes.