Nan
Nathaniel Bellows
By the time Nan was a sophomore in college, she’d settled in—but only academically, which was what she figured would happen. Her teachers admired her—they said they respected that her ideas were based on her impressions rather than her speculations. She didn’t know what that meant, but she never attempted to decode the praise of her professors—it was the delivery, the facial expression, how their hands moved in the air, the tone of voice, that seemed to communicate what she was meant to understand, like when she was at home, in Vermont, where the science behind the sunlight, the snow squalls, and the changing leaves seemed secondary to the fact that, more than anything, being in and among them made her feel alive...more
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