Sandy—
It must be nearly autumn in Anchorage by now. Are leaves falling? Are you even reading this there? It’s hard to believe seasons go on when one is in a place like this, where every day is so much like the one before. I miss cool weather. I miss rain. Here we have rains but they are nothing like rain at home. Here the rain never seems to last more than twenty minutes. The clouds haul back and unleash these enormous droplets, then quickly dissipate. And then the heat builds back up. The surface of the sea gets so bright you cannot look at it.
Out on the water, right now, I can see virga—fallstreaks—where rain leaves clouds but evaporates before it reaches the ground. It looks like hair blowing out there. It is hard not to think about Grace every few minutes. I miss her. I miss you. I am truly sorry I left.
One day:
Sandy—Please write back. Send a photo. So I know she’s alive. Write just one word.
And another, in his ungainly cursive, across the first line of the page:
Is she alive?