by Elizabeth Horner Turner Gareth Harrison I am still here, the crash just a feathery echo now, and my shadow darts about when it should be dabbing my wounds and helping me up. I wish I could get this letter to you, darling, dearie, sweeth-pea o’ my heart, because then I could continue to torment you as one does in the shoulder-tapping, neck-kissing way of those with our type of relationship. The type we bought after agonizing together at Home Depot. You wanted the motherload