Dear—

Dear—,

You wouldn’t remember me, I’m sure of it, nor would you have known that it was just a few hours prior, driving from Decorah, Iowa up to the airport in Minneapolis, I started to get that old familiar feeling, it came back in prickles or whispers as it does, as a kind of internal breeze blowing the dried leaves like bones through the bony insides. Which is also a kind of coming apart, a dispersing, the tether holding a little rocking rowboat on dock first fraying, then letting go. Or starting to. The boat, not the rope or the dock, though give me enough time I could probably say how it felt like them too. How it feels. The fraying, for instance, of the rope, the unholding: that. The braid undone, or the knot. I could explain it a thousand ways, I’m saying, but