I wake in the middle of the night, blinds up and the night sky light with snow, disoriented by the hour, strange dreams still in lungs. By morning, I pull out onto the FDR before the nor'easter really picks up, light flecks of snow clinging to the Bronx Expressway for mere moments before melting into the morning trickle of traffic. I spend two hours on the Taconic, going over his words in my head again, seeing a life evolve in layers, each fold taking over the other, building but also erasing, how the paths we walk make a life and cannot be erased.
I used to think everything could be erased.
By evening, the snow reaches the little villlage up north. The attic windows freeze from the inside, I tuck in under four covers and a heated blanket, wool socks my mother knitted on my feet. She sent them with a sweet handwritten note, scratched in a hurry, I put in on the fridge like a child’s painting. It says I was loved.
The trick is sewing that
into the seam of every layer in the fold.
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