Brenda waves a branch felled by Ike at her going away party.
I got a letter from her today from Spain.
Those months in Dijon, I thirsted for reminders of my comfortable, distant life back home. My mom sent me simple postcards about weekend trips, yardwork, and could I believe the weird thing my dad said to her? My eyes would well up. I'd get short of breath when I checked my e-mail on campus. Tonight I'll get wine-drunk on the terrace of a centuries-old rowhouse watching fireworks over the lake, but right now tell me that you sat through six hours of a Law & Order marathon. Tell me you singed off your eyebrows fixing the grill. Tell me you think your new haircut's too short.
Sorry, Brenda. I forgot. I forgot how faraway it can feel, being far away. Keep an eye on your mailbox.
1 comment:
I love you. Thanks. You know exactly what I mean. Any sort of small mention from home or what the hell you ate for dinner is amplified here. I just want to be connected. I am so glad you got my letter! Yay!
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