Hi, Honey.  It’s so late, but I know you are probably up.  Night owl at your painting table, everyone finally quiet except one little twin who liked to sneak out of bed and stand in the hallway shadows, watching you work.

Here are the other butterflies at arms reach.  Essential:  Lynda Barry and Two Guys Salt.  You can put my ashes in the Two Guys Salt container, it’s that full of everywhere it’s been with me.  Boxes of words from other languages, just to roll around in my mind, to help loosen my grip on what wants to be said:  cependant, reveler, le repas, la chaleur, rire, cacher, chacun.  Meanwhile, reveal the meal, the heat.  Laugh. Hide. Each one.  It’s a decent poem, just like that.

This week will go fast, sweetie.  We won’t have too much time to talk.  My ankle still hurts, and I slept from 6:30 til 11:30 then got up to do the dishes and all my nighttime things and write you.  But everything’s good.  The butterflies are within reach.

Sleep tight, dear.  I’ll write you tonight.