13 March 2022 / Providence

Dear H,

Has it happened? Have you been reborn a bird?

Here, it’s spring. Shadows linger longer in the elbows of trees and the asphalt is perpetually damp. The time change, as always, has me elevated and offput and so I’m back to this old habit of staying up and sleeping late.

Michael is shuffling in the other room. I can hear his careful movements as he neatens his papers and makes the bed. The sounds that escape his deliberate motions always enchant me: the sweep of a hand across linen sheets and the reshelving of a hardcover novel. The sounds barely cut through the hum of the heater and so they reach me only softly. I think about soundlessness, and I wonder at which point the echoes of the earth withdrew for you–if within the lag between light and sound you lost the ability to hear.

I think of trains often.

There are crocuses, three floors down, below the windows. I’ve been listening in my sleep for the sounds of their blooming.

I’ll write again tomorrow.


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