Ye Olde House Wifee – #3

Dearest husband,

I hope this correspondence finds you warm and well. The winter is harsh. Just yesterday, I found us out of eggs and realized I had to make the long and arduous journey to the market. I bundled up the best I could, using my winter coat, my cap, and draping three scarves about my neck. The roads were troublesome, covered with a thick blanket of slush and ice. But there were frozen tracks cut through by those who were brave enough to leave their homes ahead of me. I am thankful for their sacrifice, though it still took me ten minutes to arrive at the Kroger.

As I write you this letter, my hands freeze, nearly numb. I strain to form the words and find myself cursing the north. My gloves are not built for this. Why can I not touch my screen? Can I not feel? How will I check my texts? I curse at you, Samsung. I curse at you and your fiendish desire for me to bare my fingertips. I am a lady. And I must instagram this cupcake I saw at the Kroger.

Despite the cumbersome cold, there is still life outside. Children roam the sidewalks we foolishly cleared away of this arctic fluff. For some reason they venture out into the crisp air, though I cannot imagine why. Be careful, for they are armed, husband. They hurl tiny cannonballs made from this villainous frost at one another and I CANNOT bare to watch when I see a large child grab one of the runts and the HORROR when he rubs a handful of snow right into the wee one’s little face.

I can still hear their shrieks. They’re monstrous.

I feel the only way to safeguard ourselves from this dreadful frigid reality that now enslaves us is to stay inside. Gather the blankets. Stoke the fire. Call that Chinese place. And pray that spring is delivered to us soon.

Your devoted wife,

Lauren Priscilla Wendleton Toast McGraff