Your voice meets me in the street where I wait in the rain for a taxi. This street is newly paved. The scent of smoke and oil hover, curl in the air. There wasn’t any pavement where we lived, on the coast, only gravel, mud and snow. The winter months were best when we simmered in out nest, wintering like wasps. The white clapboards preserved us like a museum vault. We celebrated Spring by splashing them with schoolhouse red, a sign, you said, of something we cherished. But paint cracks and fades quickly in sandy, salty air. You left in October before the first snow. There was a long note, more than I planned to do. It is still raining, and this glistening street reminds me of the night sky, the way stars shine out over the ocean, a million hard diamonds.