Dear Wally,
Today there was a snowflake, blooming from the clouds' belly and floating down to rest on my sweater. A cloud-blossom. A crystal. I wanted to take it to you, Wally, but it faded into a droplet as soon as I stepped through the hospital doors. Maybe if you had seen it, you might remember how beautiful everything is.
But you can't see, can you?
Winter is very fragile, filled with silvery, glasslike things. They twinkle in the watery sunlight and they clink in the frozen breeze. I drew them for you: a crayon-y mess of gray and white and blue. It looks to me like a tangled spider-web, but just by looking at it I can feel the breath of winter raw on my cheeks. The picture hangs now over your bed, dangling on silver pins. I wish that you could feel it, Wally: the earth as it slides into a soft and wintry sleep. Sometimes I wish that I was the one sleeping, and that you were the one awake.
Get well soon,
Kuki