Friday, May 2, 1997
Dear Nova,
I’m still getting used to talking to you like this. It helps to feel like I can always reach you in these pages whenever I need. I never minded being alone before. I rather preferred it, relieved when we got back to the quiet of our home after hours of ingesting the exhausting blather of the world. Kids at school, customers at work, strangers in line at the grocery store. It all sounded the same. Solitude was always a reprieve. But these days, now that my solitude is no longer a choice but a mandate, I can’t seem to bear it. I miss sharing my aloneness with you.
These letters to you are the only times my words feel honest. I store them up over the days so I can pour them out truthfully here. Better to sweep them together all at once than to whittle them do
