Lake Michigan: sometimes it’s the ocean and the waves are blowing big. But sometimes it’s still and the green-blue of the water mixes with the blue-gray of the sky and it almost looks like you can walk on it, in it, walk somewhere, so soft. And then you turn around and there’s the city. Not sure what this means, but my mother says she read my mini-op-ed piece in the New York Times over the phone to my grandmother. My grandmother who won’t allow me to visit her building because what will people say? She wants to see me, but she doesn’t want anyone to see her seeing me.