Thursday, April 18, 1997
Dear Nova,
It’s overcast, and there’s been a strange chill running through the neighborhood for three days straight. It’s more than just cold air—it’s more like a mood, and it doesn’t seem to be moving on any time soon. I don’t know why I want to mention the weather to you, but lately, I find myself telling you all sorts of meaningless things. Sometimes I say them out loud like you"re there in the room with me. Observations. Questions. Should I wear my blue hat or my black one? Are we out of Cheerios? Where’d I leave the keys? Pointless things I might ask myself, but I know they’re really for you. And each time my words pass over my lips, for just a moment, I actually believe maybe there’s a chance you’ll answer back. But of course, you don’t. You can’t.
I don’t
