Dearest husband,
June’s heat was aggressive and unrepentant.
July, her twin sister; full of sweltering.
Sticky humidity. Awful, awful chafing.
August would be no different.
The walls of this humble home never knew
sweet, sweet relief during the oppressive summers,
warmth always trapped in its bones.
If you laid your hand upon it,
You would search for a heartbeat.
I haven’t cooked. Nor cleaned.
The laundry lingers and I with it.
A pile. Soaked with sweat.
But then.
Then a breeze.
And more.
And more.
I go from room to room.
The windows are closed
and yet
a breeze.
Witchcraft? No.
HVAC.
Yours,
Lauren Veruca Tabitha Wishwhamerschmidt
