Dear Reader,

I hate talking about the weather, but here I am, talking about the weather because it's almost April as I write this and there is still dirt-smeared snow melting outside of my window as my space heater blows on my feet. Many times this winter, I have felt like that gray snow. A pile of seasonal depression upon circumstantial depression upon good ol' depression. A constant longing for light and warmth I cannot have.

My daughter is in second grade, and a few weeks ago she was doing a language arts worksheet about SETTING. Like me, she remembered it as the physical: leafy green forests, lavender-walled bedrooms, an office with an old L-shaped desk and a space heater blowing beneath. Geography. But setting is also the hour: ten minutes until eight, the time when I will call my daughters upstairs to brush their teeth before bed. And historical period: 2018, under Trump's reign of terror. And, finally, culture: what will be remembered right now? When we tell the stories of this time? When we are future and this is past?

I want you to remember me at this desk, thinking of you under a waxing gibbous moon, sending you light and warmth. Spring is coming. I promise.

May you get all the things you want as long as they want you back—
AKM




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