I sent a postcard to my mother in Arizona—letters spelling NEW YORK, each filled with a photo of the city. She didn’t know I was there, and I wanted to casually surprise her. In retrospect, it wasn’t a kind thing, sending that postcard. The back might as well have read, Look how little you know about me. Or You’ve never been here, have you? It’s possible I was taking the opera class for the same reason. How much farther could I get from Broad Run, Indiana?
