February 2. Back home, it is Groundhog day--a day of hope, a trust that Spring will come and maybe even soon. No matter that the Northwest sky would still hunker down like a wet blanket until March rolled in on its fierce winds. No matter that night still dropped early.
Here on the opposite side of the equator, it's a sad day for me, a sign that Autumn is growing serious. It will be dark sooner and longer until we leave for the north.
Again, I consider some mid-point. And I knit and purl and cable. The stream of travelers through Puerto Williams is thinning, but the cash in my jar has grown.
Is it enough?
I think at this rate it might take decades for me to meet Henry anywhere. Saverio is closer.
And I stop. Both of these are impossible. I'm talking about traveling hundreds or thousands of miles to see two men--neither of whom I even know. That isn't even safe. It's crazy. It's not me.
Then I look at the letters resting on the kitchen table, and I read each one.