The distance I've traveled.

At the end of October, I closed up my apartment expecting to be gone for a few weeks. Things did not work out that way.

I tried to write two different essays. One, about the United States, was too political, too crass. The other, about my mother’s death, was too difficult, too raw. I’m officially giving up and sharing this sort-of-collage with you instead while I try to find the right words, the words that will do what I tell them to do.

Spring in Buenos Aires smelled of grilled meat and dust and something floral. I kept thinking I’d get used to it. I never did.

Tilcara. The air was thin, the sun was sharp, and everything took longer than I thought it would.

I went to Recoleta after I found out my mother had died. I didn’t know where else to go.

Five aircraft in two days. I wrote about each one here.

Things my mother left behind.

The sky went on forever and the days stretched thin.

Winter in Paldiski. Cold, quiet, familiar. I am home.