By New Year’s Eve, the city had iced over. I watched fireworks from my balcony in slippers and a sweater three sizes too big. My phone stayed dark—by choice. The neighbor shouted “Happy New Year!” from his patio; I shouted it back, feeling the words land less like a wish and more like an observation. This year had been new right down to the studs. I had chosen it plank by plank.
In January, a postcard arrived from Denver: a mountain at dusk, a line of snow that could have been a seam tearing the sky. No signature, no return address, just a single line: “There are things I like here that don’t need a camera.” I didn’t need to know who wrote it. I put it on the fridge with a magnet shaped like Missouri and let it be a prayer for whoever had learned to look without performing the looking.
February brought a text from Morgan: “Board opening at the non‑profit. You’d be ferocious.” I laughed at my desk alone and wrote back, “That’s the nicest feral compliment I’ve ever received.” She replied with a calendar invite. I said yes. We have work to do in this city. We have girls to teach interest rates to and boys to teach apologies without commas.