Dear Ingrid,
Big waves catch hold of me and wash me far, far inland. A wave washes me right over the evergreens to just past your house. To a church. To a cemetary. I see the dead people here, dancing the disappearing dance. They fade in and out, smiling amid the trees and shadows and plastic flowers. Before they died they would've scoffed at their peculiar little dance, but the dead people have learned that its only the little things that matter.
Is this you? Are you among the dancers? Are you watching me? You told me before you died that if dead people had it to do all over again they'd spend more time in dirty clothes at the beach with a hangover and less time worrying about what suit to wear to the office.
The ghost of a woman sleeps high up over a church steeple. She awakens, floats down from above and whispers in my ear: "Dont give up - you are right on the verge of your dreams".
-Ellen