Today would have been Ezra’s 43rd birthday. The weather in NYC is the kind he liked the least- wet and unseasonably warm, yesterday’s snow melting into gray city slush. I imagine he would have spent the day in his shop, determined to make something beautiful out of it. In imagining this, I feel his distance. Not his absence, as I have felt so intensely over the last two and half years, but the space-time between then and now, him and me, us and this. I suppose that’s what happens after some number of moons and trips around the sun, especially in relation to a traveller like Ez. But I have struggled to make sense of this particular flavor of pain, much less move through it with any grace.