Joe and I live in San Francisco. I attend Berkeley. I study art and design and have an Etsy shop where I sell custom-made sketches. I’ve moved on from designing gravestones, although I do that, too, on commission. I also draw characters, caricatures (especially of rock stars), and more. I’m at no risk of getting rich from the gig, but it keeps my bank account from being completely empty. There is something incredibly empowering about making a living by doing what you love, so I focus on being grateful for that.

Joe has recently quit his job as a longshoreman. He now works from home. Which is great, because I study long hours, and someone needs to be there for Loki to stare at with deep disapproval. We live in a tiny studio apartment, but it is ours, and we love it.

One day, I get back to the apartment to find a Post-it Note on the fridge. It entails a simple instruction.

Drive to the cemetery to see your mom.

It is written in Joe’s handwriting. Which is great, because I’m still listening to true-crime podcasts, and I’m still worried someone is going to murder me in a totally unexpected way.

I take my keys, kiss the top of Loki’s head, and drive to Half Moon Bay. It’s Friday night, and traffic is a mess. I put Duran Duran’s “Save a Prayer” on the stereo, because it was Mom’s favorite song and (still) arguably the best song in the world. Ever since I moved back to San Francisco, I have visited her every couple of months. We have great conversations. One sided but great nonetheless.

I resist the urge to call Joe on my way there. Knowing him, he wouldn’t pick up anyway. That’s the drawback of having an acerbic, mostly detached boyfriend. I know I am the love of his life . . . but I also know that he is a stubborn son of a gun.

When I get to the cemetery, I find that the parking lot is even emptier than usual. After grabbing a parking spot, I get out of the car and start making my way to Mom’s grave. I look left and right as I cross the street. I’m so confused. Everything looks the same. Joe is nowhere in sight.

I stop by my mother’s tombstone and scan the new design I made by myself. It is incredibly detailed. It is the shape of her arm—the arm that cradled me, that wiped my tears off, that pulled me to safety when I fell onto the rails—and it is tattooed to its last inch, just like Mom’s arm in real life. The design is so unique, so comprehensive. Dad says he gets asked about it all the time.

“Hey, Mom.” I perch on a patch of grass by her grave. “Any idea where Joe is?”