Dearest weirdo daydreamer, fierce night dreamer, late bloomer in all the ways that matter. Storm cloud brain, kindred to few.

Lover of summer soil and river views. You are the keeper of my grandmother’s fears and my grandfather’s stories. Achy but still strong enough to carry around that inner teenage badass. I know it’s difficult to look in the mirror nowadays and not see her. Sorry about that, I should have taken better care.

Clouds have closed off the sky tonight. Before the sun fell down for the day, those clouds were making a gray patchwork quilt hanging low over the water. Everything was gray, but the air carried no threat of rain. Pleasantly strange.

Listen, I know you’re weary from decades of fighting all those unseen demons. Sorry about that. Nothing I can do. Your mission is to keep on fighting. Don’t name them. Don’t sit around devising ways to tame them. Just fight.

In between the bouts you’ll see bright white moonlight and sunrays and smiles that make your heart fill feathered. In between the weariness and anger, you’ll be kind and hopeful and sure. You’ll be a weirdo, a dreamer. A storm.