"I understand these things," my professor says to my Dear "John" letter. "I wasn't always eighty, you know."
I think of what I want but even in shin-deep snow, I am full--really full--reading and running by day, flipping by night, writing even later at night. I have the songs to keep me singing--the laughter--the intrigue--
Calm and concrete enough to say, What does it matter?
And in keeping with letters:
I miss you!