Thelma
They say there is no rest for the wicked. Or is it the weary? Help me out on this one, as it's imperative.
I can't even keep my euphemisms straight anymore.
Regardless, I haven't had a restful night's sleep in ages.
It doesn't help me that you're on the lamb, or that I'm on the lamb, or that we can't keep our lambs in their pens.
This road is getting weary. I scrape off new calluses and old blisters every day; I dig through bathrooms looking for lotion, razors, tweezers, anything to give me that sense of normalcy. I eat what's put in front of me, and I'm hungover way too often for your mother's taste. Today I rode a horse. I'm sitting on a lakeside on the border and I really have no idea what I'm doing here.
But my fingernails are cut and clean and my hair smells like orange ginger and is drying in the dying light of the day, so there must be something right with the world.
Your silence is understandable, though I wonder if your battle is anything like mine. We have been separated too long. When you find the strength, write me back.
Love,
Louise
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