I imagine Grace all snug and warm beneath our flannel bedsheets. It’s freezing in New England right now, so she’s probably sleeping in her plaid pants and that long-sleeved shirt with the words SQUIRREL POWER! on it. Neither of us knows what it means, because the shirt has a pineapple on it. She won’t be wearing any socks, though. She sleeps barefoot no matter the temperature, and her feet are always like little blocks of ice. When we’re curled up in bed, she presses them against my calf because she’s evil. I rub my tired eyes. Fuck. I miss her. I type, I miss you.
