Dear Nick,

For a few weeks, little purple flowers dotted the grass between West Pine Boulvard and the bridge that crossed the railroad tracks. Starting my run, I’d stand among the flowers to stretch, pretending that cars couldn’t see me through the sparse trees. Toward the end of my run, right after the Victorian bridge and before the bridge over Forest Park Avenue, I’d change the song to “1, 2, 3, 4” by Feist. I’d remember sitting on your couch, you patiently fast-forwarding to when she preformed that song on SNL, and how we’d start dancing, swaying, moving our heads to the music. So I’d dance down the stairs, the purple flowers appearing just as I thought I had lost my stamina. But no; I had my thoughts, the song, and the flowers. And I’d always think to myself now wonderful it would be if you were with me, to feel that flying sensation of running down the stairs, full of life and song and purple flowers.

Love,
Holly