Dear Mom and Dad,
The cold is a feral beast. And somehow, it always finds me. It isn't the kind of cold you can brush off when you put on a jacket, but the kind that even when you put on a jacket, it still insists on remaining your unwanted companion, sinking its teeth into you until you become entirely enveloped in it.
Likewise, it's a lot like loneliness, not having you around anymore. Or perhaps that's what instigates the cold in the first place. I don't know.
I try not to think about your not being there by doing this pathetic thing, where I pretend I was always an orphan on a path to face an epic quest, like Harry Potter. But then Emma will say something that reminds me of you and it's all I can do to hold back the tears.
Emma says hello, by the way.
I'm sorry.
I know I should not have looked for my phone when it fell and just kept on driving. I would have actually seen the sedan if I didn't. And you wouldn't have had to go through with all of that afterwards.
You're probably cursing my name down there, wondering why I couldn't just use my goddamn common sense just this once.
I'm sorry.
Love, Anne.
P.S. I love you so much. So goddamn much.
