We sit glued to house listings, generations of movers looking for dopamine hits in pictures of sunny kitchens, of grassy porches. We calculate pros and cons of someone else's life, pass judgment around the table like a parlor game. The same blood runs through our veins, it is how we make order in the world. She writes from the Lower East to say I'll meet you at Penn Station, that's true friendship, and you know in your bones there is no way you'd rather return to the city. (Your father asks you, as he does every time, if it has to be New York, and you've stopped giving him nuance. All you have left to say is yes.)
Nothing and everything changes all at once, in every minute. There are rules to this game you have yet to figure out. The mountains lie quiet, snow-capped, stoic around you. A flight prepares itself in the other valley. You grab the loose ends scattered around you,
wonder if this is the year you teach yourself how to tie knots.
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