The mornings were never for storytelling, you let yourself admit, albeit reluctantly. Your mind was never able to wander like it needs to, you're not sure why you keep banging your head against this Lutheran wall. You try to eke out a few words but they fall flat. In the evening, you chase another mouse across the floor, despair turns to murderous rage and when the deed is done you crumple into yourself.
Cannot imagine what it would take to do this to another human.
The neighborhood remains snowed in, piles of white gathering an icy sheen, it's impossible to traverse the obstacles at the end of each block. The ice thickens in the Buttermilk Channel, the air tingles with deep winter, but the sun beams down on your pale skin like a homing beacon, like it's telling you it's still here. Your cousin sends reels from her favorite restaurant a few stops up on the ferry, says What I wouldn't give to see you there. Sometimes you are reminded,
everything you ever wanted
is here.
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