Yesterday at Ashbox.

Dear,

 Often, when I am alone, I think of all sorts of things to write about. I think about what I am up to lately, things I like to eat, and that special moment where you garner a certain lonely and selfish feeling of being in your 20s.

I am a server deep down in Brooklyn, near where the Brooklyn Bridge leads into downtown and around where quiet streets where people walk their dogs and millions of leaves fall onto the sidewalks. I am baking halfheartedly at a place called Radish, where I make tall Apple Spice Cake and Squash Pies and really sensitive and delicate brownies. I do things on the side, not quite with full force at the moment, though I am trying to get my business into gear, while dreaming of running a marathon in Paris in April.

I write poems in my sleep and wake up to forget them.
My favorite foods are still apples, toast, peanut and sunflower seed butter, and anything green I can get my hands on. I like things that smell and taste like grass and I am obsessed with The Herbe Shoppe, where I buy Maca and Kelp and dozens of herb teas. I drink them all day and night and make smoothies really early in the morning and hope I don’t wake my roommates up.

I have a lot of, what am I doing? moments lately. More like, do I know what I’m doing? When I look at the things in my bedroom and when I sit with the cats in the evening, talking to my roommate Jared about current events. I miss Reno and you all the time. I miss the vast sky of last year, and the glorious sunsets and powerful moments of love and regret and wistfulness and the largeness, and smallness of life. I worked so hard this year. It was what I wanted and I got it.

My friend Ali has cancer and she’s in her second round of treatment. I think about calling her and I don’t. I spent a few nights with her when I was in Utah, I told you about them. I will pray for her. Loud, singing Jewish prayers and tiny Buddhist prayers under my breath before soup and silent ones when I meditate. And I will tell her to eat vegetables.

I eat so much money. I buy big jars at Andew’s Local Honey and I go through them in two weeks. I put it all over toast, in drinks, in tea. I cook so, so much at Pirooz’s. I roast squash and cook pies for other people and make soup for myself for a whole week. He and I drink single beers and watch old movies and go on dates, mostly in Brooklyn.

What do you do? Where do you go? Who do you see?

My dad is better now. He scared us all, and amid tears, I listened to my mother talk to me as I sat on a church stoop on Bleecker Street in Manhattan about how my sister could move in with her and my dad would be gone forever. He’s still there, and he is happy as far as I can tell. My brother can love whoever and doesn’t have to worry about it; and me too. We are the same.

I’ll talk to you soon.

Beexles