This will not be a continuous story but rather a series of ficlets whenever I find time to write. I miss Norma Louise terribly, but many of them will likely revolve around her death. Who knows, I'll potentially throw fluff in every now & again.

please keep in mind this is the first I've published in over a year & a half. Perhaps lower your expectations. (Potentially OOC, this began as a poem)

to you, sincerely

[I had forgotten how to breathe unless I was gasping for air. Normalcy consisted of bated breath and fear hovering just out of view, sucking the oxygen like a horrific fire. The air was always sweeter with you by my side.]

Dear Alex,

Do not cry for me. Rather, plant me a garden that sings with the potential it harbors. There are a few things you mustn't forget. One, the morning glories are profound snugglers. I can see the smirk on your face from here, but yes, flowers can be snugglers. They will wrap their leafy tendrils around just about anything and squeeze, squeeze, squeeze. But they are naive, blinded by their desire to bring happiness and harmony and sometimes they don't realize they are suffocating the ones they love. Be gentle with them, guide them and for the love of all that is good do not let the brilliance fall from their petals. It would be such a shame.

You were always so good at making broken things feel beautiful and whole again.

Let the roses grow into graceful dancers; let them perform for the clouds swirling above. Don't be surprised when the cheeky sunflowers spring up tall as Goliath, for I am singing to them. But be sure to remind them of whom they are from time to time; they are not the sun, try as they might to imitate his radiant warmth.

Please, be patient with the orchids. They are stubborn, fickle little things, but when they finally warm up to you, oh my stars, there isn't a thing in this world that possesses such magnificence. Lastly, the lupines won't appear to be anything special to the naked eye. They won't dance like the roses, or grow 15 stories high like the sunflowers. They prefer personal space unlike morning glories, and they are not particularly stunning like the orchids.

The lupines are resilient. My brother and I would trample fields full of them as children, our shoes caking them to the earth, and yet they would spring up plentiful as ever the next season. They are strong and they do not give up.

Thank you for picking me up when all I knew how to do was hug the ground.

Thank you for guiding me endlessly; my love and need to protect him shadowed my better judgement: all I wanted to do was hold him and hope that whatever was wrong in his mind would sort itself out. I am sorry for not allowing you to save me from myself.

Thank you for letting me dance - for dancing with me. I hadn't known that kind of joy my whole existence until you placed your hand on my back and made me laugh. Don't ever doubt how happy I was when I was with you.

Thank you for putting up with my extravagance, my love for the extremes. For catering to my (nearly) every whim. And thank you for reminding me that sometimes it is too hot so close to the sun.

Alex, thank you for not giving up on me when all I wanted was to shrink into nothing. You pruned my wilting leaves and helped me learn to breathe again without the constant threat of doom lingering behind every door. I had forgotten how to breathe unless I was gasping for air. Normalcy consisted of bated breath and fear hovering just out of view, sucking the oxygen like a horrific fire. The air was always sweeter with you by my side.

With your love, I was able to bloom into someone I didn't recognize. Someone uncharacteristically optimistic, someone open and light, someone who forgot to smile out of obligation because she was too busy feeling to remember such trivial things.

Be kind to yourself, my love. Ultimately, there was nothing you could do to prevent this. Remember to plant the garden. You have so much good in you.

All my love, Mrs. Sheriff