That one stops me, makes me laugh, because of course that’s the first thing I was going to say. But a perfect day. What would that look like? I wiggle my fingers at the idea of getting to choose anything I want to do, and suddenly my mind expands to include the things I loved doing before. Snow machining, I type, or skiing or anything outside, fresh air, glacier kayaking, seal watching, hiking . . . the list keeps going because I can’t seem to stop once I’ve allowed myself to think beyond systems and calendars and memory. I’m still typing when a woman’s voice interrupts me.

“Can I get you water or iced tea while you wait?”

I freeze. Mom. I look up and she stands at the table, wearing the server’s uniform of black shirt and black pants, short white apron around her waist. Her hair is pulled into a bun at the nape of her neck, and the light makeup she wears accentuates her dark-blue eyes, which are as beautiful as I remember.

“Mom,” I say, reaching into my pocket as she slides a note card onto the place mat in front of me.

The meeting of two eternities, the past and the future . . . is precisely the present moment. —Henry David Thoreau

Dear Claire, I’m sober and I live in Whittier now. You are strong, kind, resilient, and everything I wished I could have been. You amaze me and I’m so proud of the woman you are, right at this moment. I love you and I’m here for you. Love, Mom

I read it again and again until it hurts to breathe, and when I start to give it back to her, she covers my hand with hers. “No, you keep it. I have a whole stack of them.” She smiles and suddenly I am in footed jammies, and she is humming while she tucks the covers around the outline of my small body, kisses me on my forehead. Snug as a bug, Claire bear.

“Don’t worry; this is just one of many.” Then she winks, and I can’t speak because in that moment she is exactly as I remember her.

Another figure appears, takes the chair opposite me, and fills it far more substantially than I ever remembered. He wears a thick blue sweater that hugs his broad shoulders. Tate as a man. He resembles the younger version I knew intimately even if his squared jaw and straight nose seem somehow more manly, older, but in all the right ways. I uncross and recross my legs, try not to mess with my hair.

“I’ll bring you both some iced tea,” Mom says.

Tate sets a note card on top of the one Mom gave to me.