Dear Margaret,
I'm writing you a letter I'll probably never send. But the words need to go somewhere.
It's Sunday afternoon. I'm sitting out on the fire escape with my coffee, wearing your father's old winter coat. It's still one size too big, even after all these years.
The upstairs neighbor started taking violin lessons last fall. She's not very good yet, but she's persistent. Tonight she's been working on the same D-major scale for an hour.
The sound carries down through the floorboards and out here onto the fire escape. It reminds me of you at thirteen, before you decided you'd rather play soccer.
I used to sit on this same fire escape while you practiced. You'd get frustrated and slam the bow down. I'd call up, 'Keep going, honey.'
I guess that's what family is. You keep going. Even when the notes are wrong. Even when you're a thousand miles away.
The snow is starting to fall. I should go inside. But I'm just going to sit here a little longer, listening to her try again.
I love you. And I'm glad you moved away to be who you are. Even if it leaves me here, on this fire escape, wearing a coat that's too big.