So sorry I only talk about myself but I know nothing of the stranger on the other side of the water.

What is it about snow that incites thought? The types of thoughts that only come from long conversations with oneself. The thoughts that surface only through repetitive elements: for me it's the hissing of shower water, the whirring of air through the vacuum, the polka-dotting of the rain, and the frozen time of falling snow.

My involuntary focus on nostalgia continues. I'm convinced now it's happening for a purpose; it's happening because I need to write these things down. I haven't been doing that. I need to. I may never think of them again.

My best friend when I was in second grade was Melissa Jones. She had long blond hair. I don't know where she is now. She lived down the street from our school. Her street was out of a storybook, shaded and protected by oak trees and mulberry trees. Her backyard was really big, overwhelming as the ocean. It was bedded with blue grass (that's what her mom called it). One day at the end of my second grade year, I was walking with Melissa to her house after school. We had frequent playdates. I always looked forward to them. But today was different. Today I knew something, and I knew I had to tell her. The walk seemed slower today, like the news I had to deliver somehow contained the key to altering time. The longer I waited to tell her, the longer the sidewalk stretched on. It finally burst out of me: "Melissa, I'm moving after this year. I won't be going to Sequoia anymore." She started crying. I started crying. We were each other's first best friend, and now we wouldn't have each other anymore.

We wrote one letter to each other after I moved. She sent me her third grade school photo. I probably sent her mine. That was the last time I ever talked to her.