To Tom

Dear Tom, I’m writing this because the light is hitting the cliffside in a specific way that makes the *Protea* bracts look like stained glass. It’s day 202. Kevin is currently trying to fix the radio again, making a rhythmic clanking sound that is testing my patience, but I’m focused. This island is a botanical mess, Tom. A glorious, unmapped mess. Nobody has properly surveyed this place, and every time I push through the undergrowth, I find something that shouldn't exist by name. I found a variant of fern near the salt springs today with serrated margins that I don't recognize from any text. I spent three hours just sketching it. My hands are cramping, but I couldn't let the detail go to waste. I keep looking at my grandmother’s seed tin. It’s sitting on the kitchen table. I haven't opened it yet. I’m terrified that if I plant them here and the soil isn't right, I'll lose the entire lineage. It’s irrational, I know. I'm a botanist; I shouldn't be afraid of dirt. I haven't been sleeping well. The silence here is heavy sometimes, and my mind starts cataloging the shadows instead of the plants. But then I see a new petal structure, and I forget. Write back. Jenny