‘Yes.

I should have.’

We spent the rest of the hour reviewing little pieces of history.

She remembered a dog I had forgotten, a neighbor who wore purple hats, and the way Walter sang badly while he cooked.

She told me about working in Madison, a small apartment with windows that froze in winter, and learning to live quietly enough that each day required no explanation.

I told her about my first accounting job, the wedding that never happened, and my son’s birth.