Thank you so much for taking care of my home while I’m away—I’m as grateful as a March moon on the other side of town. Here are a few things to keep in mind this week:

  • My plants, I wish I could weave their leaves into a little box, and plant them in my hands. But I can’t bring them on my United flight. When their soil is dryer than the toast left on your mother’s silver plate, revive them with the tears that flow from the sink.
  • At dusk, turn the porch light on. Flies might congregate near the light—let them be. A fly by a light is the soul of a man named Sebastian.
  • My wifi network is NETGEAR139 and the password is 98w7Yk32PoJ2mN4t.
  • Feel free to use my Netflix account. I won’t know when you’re watching, but I’ll feel the trace of your gaze down my spine, lingering like a whisper in a cold barn. Have you seen Back With the Ex? If you haven’t, I highly recommend it. It’s an Australian dating show. Oh, lost love.
  • After you take a shower be sure to open up the window in the bathroom. When it gets too steamy in there the fire alarm goes off. Once, alone and curious, I didn’t open the window. A strobe of sound pierced my ears—chaos kissed me hard on the lips while my neighbor screamed, “are you ok?!” I haven’t had the urge since.
  • Help yourself to anything in the fridge or pantry. I keep a jar of homemade strawberry preserves all the way in the back left corner. It’s sweet, but not as sweet as an ant dancing on your father’s old hat. Or a pencil with a dulled tip hiding in the stairway. Or a soccer ball deflating in the field by the high school where the rain paints the grass in the early morning glow. Actually, maybe it is that sweet.
  • I’ve made up the bed for you with clean sheets. All of my greatest wishes and darkest thoughts have laid across my mattress. It’s memory foam and I think it’s pretty comfy.
  • Fresh towels are in the closet in the hallway.
  • Sometimes the heater makes funny noises. Don’t be afraid of the heater. Be the heater.
  • When you leave Sunday night, please place the key on the kitchen counter. There it can bathe in the memory of your touch; your pocket, a former womb of mystery, now a home only accessed in dreams.

If you have any questions, don’t hesitate to reach out or cry into your pillow. The wetness on your cheek is a message to my heart. I’ll probably respond to a text sooner though.

Your best American girl,