and every year I still yearn to write them—the leaves, signature picture of beauty inevitable and stock as a sunset. The truth? I took a screw- driver to your window, almost dropped your AC unit two stories to concrete. The herb garden is dying. The stinkbugs are finding ways inside. You’re trekking the opposite half of the country trying to trace the azimuth to a future you can believe in and I’m thinking of my ma- ternal line, the sex-specific cancers I stand to inherit: uterine, ovarian, breast. My body is not inevitable. I picture it in forty years, gutted, unsexed to survive, my hands famishing for the feel my twenty- something self. You mail me a letter on your best stationary. I stare at the bathroom mirror, snap polaroid nudes. Season of what we have not yet, and what we’re scared to lose.