From My Floor

By Katherine Conway

Dearest R,

As always, I am writing to you from my floor. This is a new floor, a light brown carpeted basement floor. This new floor feels far from the cool white-tiled floor of my house in Rwanda, where I mulled over evil, humanity, and healing. It feels even further from the big red tiles of my Honduran campo home, where I spent many candle-lit hours writing and sunrise filled mornings processing life’s journeys. It feels far from the expensive rug covered floor in Boston we collapsed on after hours of storytelling and shared empathy. This is my new floor — it doesn’t yet contain those moment, those memories.

R, I moved. again.



Perpetually Ungrounded

By Roxanne Krystalli

My darling K,

I, too, am writing to you from a floor — the third floor of Ginn library, to be precise. I am sitting at what I feel is my ‘assigned seat:’ by the window, across from the tree by which I mark the seasons. At the moment, I am living to the tune of red leaves – perhaps my favorite seasonal soundtrack. When I think about ‘putting down roots,’ as you put it, I think of red leaves and the first raindrops on library windows. There is something peculiar about being grounded by transience, about finding one’s roots in seasons which — by definition! — change. Perhaps this is the kind of permanence that you and I can aspire to: the sense of being rooted and grounded, with just a pinch of whimsical nostalgia, remembrance, and dreamy transience to keep our wandering souls alive.