Dear Wigleaf,

I'm writing this from my studio apartment. It's 8:50 pm, my parents have just left back to Philadelphia. It's a four-hour drive, with no traffic. My apartment building had its power shut off last night, so we sat around my kitchen table drinking wine my boss gave me as a Christmas gift. I think it was good, my boss bought it. There was talk of Lenin, Chinese emperors, President Tokayev of Kazakhstan. The only sources of light were two scented candles I bought on sale a couple of months ago, the light from the apartments across the street, and a concert lightstick.

When I was seven, my parents, my sister and I used to live in a one-room apartment in Germany. We had our own bathroom, but the kitchen we shared with the rest of the tenants in the apartment building. We lovingly called it the holy kitchen. All four of us slept on a king-bed. My parents in their late thirties, my older sister nine. She lives in her own one-bedroom apartment in Pittsburgh now. She's a plastic surgeon. The four of us also lived in a trailer park together when I was younger.

My power is back on. I have three small lamps and my Christmas lights on. Our family keeps our Christmas trees up until March.

Best,

Zhanar