This shouldn’t be so difficult—your side of the ocean no colder than mine and coasts are often rocky and lined with stinking fish and seaweed. I read your letter again last night when the colder air rolled over hills. Each line a new complaint about collapsing cupboards and sulky cats. The neighbor is painting his house; white boards sopped of gray and each morning a different man on a ladder smiling down to sidewalk. The trees are still today and everything is quieter. Voices do not carry through closed windows and only rumbles from old cars remind me that I am not alone here in the brick house far from the road. The tea warms me a bit too much and the tray for letters on the desk still empty, waiting for you to get out of bed and compose a reply.