Dear Charlie,

I know how you feel. I’ve seen those pictures too.

When I walked out this afternoon, I crossed the street and looked west to the sun. For a moment the wind slowed down and gently tickled my ear like a whistle. The sky was clean but of a Sinatra blue... This is not really happening. Winter is not melting. Spring is not up to kiss us with green lights. It will never again cover our hands like lace gloves. Our season will not return to us. Machinery chokes our breath and yes, wires cut our branches, but our pillows are full of seeds.

You are the sun, always.

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