Every time you sell another bag, I say "I'll use it, don't sell it." But that's not what I mean.

You've been letting things go lately. Quietly, without making it a moment. The bags. Certain friends. Parts of your life that used to take up so much space.

Every time I come home I do the same thing. You show me something you're selling and I say, "I'll use it, don't sell it." Or "that's still valuable, keep it."

I bite my lip every time I say it.

Because that's not what I mean at all. What I mean is that I don't know how to watch your world get smaller and just say nothing. What I mean is that you never complain, not once. Somehow that makes it harder for me, not easier.

What I mean is, I'm sorry I'm not there.

I'm still here in New York. Still hustling. Still telling myself that this is all for something, that I'm doing everything I can, that the distance is temporary even when it doesn't feel that way. I carry this guilt I don't talk about. That you are there and I am here and the days are just passing.

I think about a day I don't let myself think about for too long. The day everyone eventually faces but nobody wants to name. And I wonder if I will have done enough. Been home enough. Said enough.

I notice everything. Every bag. Every thing you let go of. I have always noticed.

I just never say any of it. I talk about the bags instead.

You are the most graceful person I have ever watched. And I see you. I have always seen you.

I meant to tell you that.

Your daughter in New York