Dear ——, Last night, my mother asked me if I’ll miss it: this New Hampshire town, its few unhip, unfamous restaurants peripheral to a town green unmown, untended to, all overgrown with weeds and thistle fluff, where apples fall and find no funeral. My reflex was to say my stay was brief, just three years, insufficient time to glue oneself to one’s environment. The stiff, crushed turtle in my driveway last night drew no tear—I didn’t know him—but he left a bigger bloodstain than seemed possible . . . It lasted just a blink, and yet I lived in this place longer than I lived with you.