Dearest Bruce,

I wanted to tell you about the garden. You would have liked the foxgloves.

The days here are long but they move through me as if I am a window. I wait for a word. I wait for the knock. I wait the way I wait for weather.

I am writing this slowly so that if it never reaches you, at least it will have taken its time. I fold the page twice before I sleep.

Yours, as ever ~ Barb