Emily

I feel cut off from the world I wish to reside in. No walks in the park with my sister discussing literature and men. No romanticism from my mother. The books my father read were standard American true crime. I say not Hogmanay, but when I'm here, I imagine walking like the others with their fathers or their brothers. Does warmth measured out by greater transience collect and spill? Will my sister understand? I'll see her at Christmas, a month of my every year for this crime of existence. Will love grow warmer as I'm missing him? I think so. I'm resilient. I'll adjust. I'm giving in.