Two weeks before Lillian was released from the hospital, Danny and his cousin pulled up in front of my grandparents’ house. I knew he was coming because he’d said so in his last letter, the fourth I’d received since leaving New York, and the fourth I’d read without writing back. While his cousin stared from inside the cab of the moving truck, Danny came to the door to tell me they wouldn’t stay unless I answered the question he’d asked me four times. I looked down at the gold circle sitting on Danny’s palm, then back up to his face. My expression must have told him what he needed to know: before I said a word, he walked back to the cab. Less than an hour later, the two of them had transferred all the boxes to my grandparents’ garage. They refused my grandmother’s offer of dinner and a place to stay the night; instead of heading back the next morning, they would hit the road and drive straight through. As they pulled away, Danny threw something small out the window that arced through the air and landed across the street in a bush. My Brooklyn life seemed like it belonged to another version of myself who still lived in New York, while the Cleveland version of me had been here all along, eating Grandma’s food and sleeping between her cool, clean sheets. Somehow I had slipped out of one life and into the other like hopping trains.

LETTER TO DEBORAH BRODSKY, SEPTEMBER 1970: It’s so strange to think that after sixteen years, a single phone call, and you’ve finally “met” my mother. You’ll be amused to know she thinks you’re lovely; she was surprised Father had formed such a low opinion of you during his one brief visit to New York. Of course, she said, people do change with time, and how remarkable that you and I have remained such good friends over the years. But really, I’m being unfair to her, which shows how much better I’m feeling. Until this week I didn’t have the energy to hold an opinion, not to mention a pen. While I acknowledge that the chemotherapy deserves much of the credit for my improvement, your phone calls were crucial medicine. I tried to seem strong when Jane and my parents visited, but whenever the phone rang, it was a relief knowing I could close my eyes and surrender to your voice as you read me a poem, or told me a funny story about Yuma, or held your handset out the window so I could hear the silence of the Sonoran Desert at night.