LETTER TO DEBORAH BRODSKY, OCTOBER 1976: As usual, I’d taken the bus halfway to the Art Institute so I could walk the rest. The two of them couldn’t have been older than nineteen. I was content simply to enjoy the energy of their strides and their voices until one of them stopped walking and turned to face her friend. It was clear from their faces that the world around them had fallen away, their lives subsumed by the stream of words flowing between them. They were so intent on each other that I could have taken fifty pictures, but I didn’t need to. I sensed the perfection of that first shot in my mind as well as in my hand. And so, happy birthday. Those two don’t look anything like us, but it feels like our portrait nonetheless.

Deb, I’ve been meaning to write you about something for a while, and I think you might know what it is. At first I thought moving to Arizona really was just a matter of honoring previous commitments and tidying loose ends, but it would be dishonest to pretend that the past two years of delays have been accidental. I know joining you in the desert might be all that we’ve been looking forward to, but what if it isn’t? The last time we lived on top of each other, everything about who we were was new and exciting and open to change. This made it easier to overlook our faults, but we’ve been ourselves for over twenty years now. I’ll never pay attention to a newspaper or devote myself to a cause, and you’ll never stop following your impulses, no matter where they may lead. We’ve been able to excuse ourselves these and other perceived failings at a distance, but could we up close? I can already hear you in my mind, because where I hesitate is exactly where you would leap—but Deb, you’ve got a talent for friends. You make them wherever you go, while I can count the friends I’ve made in my life on three fingers.