myth for water lettuce

Dear Sweetie,

I can barely believe I am writing to you from our town. I barely recognize it, bound as it is, three times over. The very world feels so far away because our skies remain covered by long, pale, and overlapping arms of dodder.

Despite the malfunctioning infrastructure, the grass people seem to have lost their way. They act strange and distracted. They sleep many hours. But still, we are required to make bread. The dead tromp through the leaves or sit on mounds of vines.

I know you are far away, but I fear we will all be made into mist before long. I barely see the same dead twice. I don't know where they go, but they continue to arrive. I keep thinking I will see you among them.

Rebecca found me in the work camp. She tells me she is living in the limestone quarry now.

Our house is all but choked out by vines. Grass people try to live there and knock the growth away, but it returns anew each day. Empressola has requested we maintain, as if all is normal, as we climb over Kudzu vines and work around shoddy ovens.

I noticed the dead can hear me though, as they seem to hear no one else. I spilled water, and when I spoke, the dead before me jumped up in shock. They could hear my words.

I may ask Rebecca to weave with water. She has told me she needs protein, but I need simply water, for I believe the dead are thirsty. I know it sounds crazy.

One of them I saw when I went to the wash, when I went to wash the equipment, fell into the water and bloomed into a green rose and floated there for several seconds before reshaping back to their. Original form. I perceive now they tried to curl back up.

Then they tried to curl back up, as if looking to become the rosette again. On the water, but they couldn't. The dead are looking for water to become something.

Green roses.

I spoke. I called out. The dead looked up at me. With confusion in their eyes. A dull longing and ache. And I understood it.

I believe you will need this information. That's why I write this letter to you in hopes that it will find you wherever you are.

Looking for the moon.

I love you, sweetie.

I fear I did not teach you what you needed. I wish you were not the only one to leave, and I know you are the only one who could.