To Pluto and Jane and all the rest,
I cried today. I never cry. Because up until this point, I thought you would come back. I thought the blood in your veins would start bursting at it's seams and you would beat your head like a drum against your pillow and you'd gasp for air and you'd swallow the world and I'd be here to see it. Three months is such a long time. You never hear people come out of a coma in three months. Three days, maybe three years, but not three months. You can't even be classified as a miracle yet, Jane. You were an angel when you were alive, or awake, I mean. It all feels the same now anyways. A boy came to visit you yesterday. He put a rose on the bedside table and nodded at me. I just squeezed my mouth tight, I didn't want to give you away. I guess he got caught up in your flutter too. And I shutter to think how many others arrive when I'm not around. It must be hard to have to so many adoring fans and yet you can't even hear the applause.
Signed, Marigold
