This work grew from a gentle, unlikely friendship. I went to help with her dog and small chores; I stayed for the stories. At 93, her memories wandered beside mine, sometimes clear, sometimes tangled, always tender. She told me of summer places, of a wedding held in the house where we sat, of days that still lived in her voice. I told her who I was becoming.
Between our uneven memories, something steady appeared: sweetness, curiosity, and the quiet art of showing up for each other across time.
Memories
