You missed the snow, she writes, as the inches amass on Manhattan, but it isn't true. The mountains here are full of it. I wake early on the first morning and see pink streaks slide across the slopes and turn into sunlight; it looks freezing. Icicles line the windows, but the horses are still out in the field across the road. I shiver.
I forget my phone, and it overflows with errands and conversations. A life continues, whether I keep up with it or not. The swelling silence of the West begs me to breathe, to be still; I itch to go back, to get started. There is a life in New York that is aching to be lived.
It is mine.
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