Relativity

Last night, late night at the office and when I walked home, the air was black, the streets glistened with fallen leaves and rain. Today, frozen fingers and frozen nose, it is fall. I write my father a long letter, tell him not to worry. Tell him I won't end up on a park bench, I won't starve. Only realize later that maybe that wasn't his baseline criteria for where his daughters would end up.

A teary voice calls to me from warmer climates and it breaks my heart that I cannot make it better, that it is bad at all. Another voice comes from across the ocean; why is everyone so far away? Why am I. She spoke of her last birthday, how we were all together. I look back, am reminded:

"She asked me if I feared the dark as much as I used to, if I trembled at the thought of winter with the first turning leaf and the anticipation of what is to come. I had to think about it for a while, the answer not immediately clear.

No, I said finally. Not since I moved here."

I'm not on a park bench. I will not starve. This, too, shall pass.