Dear Francesca,

What shall I tell you tonight, Francesca? My hands skim the keyboard, as letters lead into words, but I have nothing much to say. I could tell you about the afternoon light, and the crisp leaves on every sidewalk I see. I could tell you about how summer holds on like a fruit to a vine, the temperatures still warm.

I could tell you about a frenzied mind wanting to write words on top of words, words everywhere everyday. I cannot imagine a life without writing. I must reach into the language, pull out words to call my own. I must spin words purl words unfurl words.

But you know these things Franney, so what can I tell you? There are things I could tell you, but they are buried and I shy away from peeling back the thick layers these stories lie under. It is impolite of me to do that, to cause you to wonder what my untold stories are, to hint and them and not tell. I really have no secrets, though. For all the stories inside me, at least one person knows about them, if not more. Some of these stories, they lie sleeping, deeply, and it may be rude to awake them. Some stories I leave alone.

And here I will leave you for the night, Franney, with this chaotic letter.

Yours,
Hannah Iona