I found a bookstore on the upper west side today. It was filled to its ceiling with second hand classics. A few outliers too. Picked up an old copy of Jane Eyre. Is that a depressing Christmas present? Maybe I’ll keep it for myself. I read through a few chapters of The Red Pony. Do you remember that one? Reminds me of how you used to write. Maybe the way he strung his words together. Smooth and unforced. I found one of the essays you sent me that first winter. You were much better at it than the rest of us. I read it the other night. Signs of your detached sentiment laced in and out of each paragraph. You weren’t as heartless as you portrayed. You still aren’t. That’s what I tell myself at least. I remember when you moved away in May. We kept it up. Spoke mostly of missing home. The ocean and our families. I didn’t mind the cold. Did you hate it? I’m forgetting now. I remember Christmas was hard for me. I spent it working and feeling sorry for myself. I tried to find the good somehow. The emptied streets looked beautiful, especially once the snow started to fall. Lightly against the asphalt, dusting the cars and the edges of my neighborhood. You were home like everyone else. How much longer was New York going to keep me? I couldn’t see even a trace of the end back then. I made something up.
