Dear Wigleaf,

I finally made it back to Ireland. There was a part of me — the separation-anxiety part, the part that scribbled down license plate numbers of rented cars on childhood holidays out of sadness to move on — that thought I'd never make it. Time continues to offer reasons that I should stop recording license plate numbers (so to speak), yet 35 years old and I still say every goodbye like it's the last. It snowed here last night. I normally mock this Irish tendency to mention weather in every correspondence, particularly as it moves within the finest of spectrums — bit warmer or colder or sunnier or rainier than always — but snow is notable; in fact the Dáil Éireann is meeting to form a crisis plan. I wonder would they make one for me as well. I would say: I know the roads are a priority, but after that, would you do me the kindness of evicting my next-door neighbour? Or provide a housing grant so I can afford to evict myself? It is a small misery to live in proximity to such magic when I know it's not mine. Every time I walk past his door, I remember a shift in preposition: walking in, through, inside, beyond. Yesterday I reinstated my Irish SIM and had no messages, which confirms that 'by' is the correct preposition. It's difficult, constantly fearing things will change when you leave, because once in a while, rare as the snow, they do.

Is mise le meas,
Katie