A group of children played near the swings, and someone’s dog chased a ball with more enthusiasm than skill.

Emma was taller.

Her hair had grown long enough for a braid.

She wore a coat she’d chosen herself, bright blue with enormous pockets.

She had filled one pocket with colored pencils because, she explained, an artist should be prepared for an unexpected bird.

We sat in our usual place.

She ordered strawberry swirl, then announced that she might switch to peach next summer.

I told her that after so many years of loyalty to strawberry, the ice cream shop might hold a retirement ceremony in its honor.