Her note held no regret, just explanation:
The wind. I could no longer stand the wind.
Our union held three years,
survivors lashed together
living bent against the onslaught.
But she finally cut loose.
I do not blame her;
she did not grow up under the wind.
The postcard came months later,
sent from a languid state
on a final updraft of grace:
I'm sorry. But I have tulips now. Love, Lee.