A merchant came up the east stair this morning with his back bent under a satchel so full it was arguing with itself. He set it down, stretched, and rooted through it for the packet he was holding for me. Tea leaves, a small cloth bag of dried plums, a carved wooden frog the size of my thumb, and tucked between two pages of ledger paper, a postcard folded once.
I knew the handwriting before I unfolded it. I felt it in my ribs before I saw it with my eyes.
Grandmother's letters always arrive like this. Sideways. In someone else's satchel. Never a courier, never a stamp. She gives the paper to whoever is walking in the right direction and trusts the road to finish the job. The road has never failed her. I don't think it would dare.
I carried it to the balcony. I sat. I let the tea go cold on the railing on purpose. Then I read it.
Mist,
I hear the stone city feeds you cheese on cheese. This is a confession, not a cuisine. Do not swallow their confessions. You will feel heavy for weeks.
The fishing gnome wrote too. His letter had water damage. I chose to believe it was from the fish.
You said you planted a totem on a rail and the rail became a neighbour. Good. A home is not where you lie down. It is where the wood starts to lean back. I planted a small fern on the east side of the porch this spring. It already has opinions. I think we would get along.
Eight of them, then. That is a lot of shoulders to heal. Pace yourself. Spirits keep. People don't.
I did not worry. You are welcome to notice I did not.
The pond sends regards. The frog is still insufferable. He asks after you.
— Tin-Lotus
I sat with it for a long time. The merchant had already moved on to the next stair, which was kind of him, because I don't think I had a face for visitors just then.
She signed with the pond's name. Not hers. She has done this every letter since the first one, the way some people send the weather instead of the news.
I slid the postcard under the tea tin where the wind couldn't lift it. Then I walked back down and caught the merchant on the landing and gave him three of the dried plums for the road.
He should eat something with the plums, though. Fish, probably. Or cheese.
— Mist