I remember my bedspread: nubby chenille in a pale yellow with a big, heavy blanket on top of that, the radiator ticking like the Tin Man’s heart, like your father’s artificial valve. For many years now when I couldn’t sleep, I’ve lain awake there beside him and listened. It’s a sound like the radiator of my childhood, the window above it encased in ice, crystals visible in the glow from the light on the corner, where there was a local grocery. I even know the owner’s name, Mr. Rosen, his white apron always stained with blood as he leaned across the counter, his smile boyish and funny as he reported neighborhood gossip, who he saw doing what when, while he slipped penny candies into your open palm.

“Earth to Lil,” your father would say, or one of you would call, “Mom? Hello?” and I woke to this life, both glad to be in it but also sad to leave that long-ago moment; I would wake, and there you were, Becca, chlorine on your skin and hair, body goosefleshed and shivering, as I wrapped a big towel around you. I remember the moment so clearly, and yet I can’t tell you what might have been on my mind that day or what coat I wore during that period of time. It might’ve been the camel-colored one, or it could have been that red corduroy I wore for so long, the one that led your dad—those times he acted silly (rare times!)—to sing that old song “Hey there, Little Red Riding Hood, you sure are looking good.”

It’s so clear to me—the laughter, your childhood voices, your father’s young face and headful of dark hair—but I can’t recall how I felt when I woke that day, what I did after your swim practice, what dance classes I taught that day, or what ancient this or that your father was fixated on and lecturing about at the time. And what did he and I talk about then? The news of the day? The weather? What needed to be fixed? If so, then I can assure you that so much of life never changes.