But I was never good with details, even when I was young. It’s not a detail, Mom, Helena said in exasperation, when I said that.

Then she pointed out that I was meticulous with my work — with my paintings. Meticulous, she said. And I couldn’t deny it.

BUT HELENA ARRIVED on Friday evening. She’d told me her train was leaving Waterbury at 10:10 that morning, Mark would drive her to the station. And then she sent me an email with a link to the Amtrak site and the route of the train. Why did she do that? It’s only by chance that I saw and opened that email. But then, as I sat in my chair facing the window, a bitter cold day, snow piled on the ground, even here in New York, I looked at my cell phone, at the link, and the route of the train.

I knew that route, Howard and I had travelled it many times as I’ve said, in the car. I loved the names of the towns, I remembered how I’d always loved the names. And I followed them now, on the map on my phone: Montpelier; Randolph; White River Junction; Claremont; Bellows Falls; Brattleboro; Greenfield; Northampton; Holyoke; Springfield; Hartford; Bridgeport; Stamford; New Rochelle. They weren’t the South African names of the journeys of my childhood, and my young adulthood. They were, they are, American names. Well, of course they are. Why so compelling? I sat for a long time then, with my head leaning against the back of the armchair, my eyes closed, and imagined Helena’s train journey, through all those towns. A bitter winter journey, so much deep snow along the way. Fields of whiteness, hills, mounds of whiteness, a station master in Holyoke stamping his boots in the cold, his breath a white cloud.

What a cold winter this has been.

And I imagined Helena’s arrival at Penn Station, the train pulling in to that cavernous place, and the passengers: New York! Helena pulling her wheeled bag as she bumped down and exited the train, her coat, her black coat that I knew, her hat, black too, a bright blue scarf perhaps. A small figure. Helena is not tall.

And out onto 33rd Street, daylight already gone, lights, the noise and bustle, and Helena’s arm up — such a strong arm — hailing a cab. And then the drive up 8th Avenue, up, up, a word or two with the cab driver: cold, isn’t it? Left at the circle onto Broadway, becoming Amsterdam. Left onto 79th, then right: Riverside. Out, then, in front of my apartment, the cab door slamming shut as the car pulled away, and Helena walking towards our doorway, pulling her wheeled bag behind her. An old building, seven storeys. Our doorman: oh, good evening, nice to see you! He knew her, of course.

I was more looking forward to Helena’s visit than I thought.

ONE OF THE THINGS Helena and I did this visit was go and see the Tiffany mosaic of the two white swans at the Met. She knew it was a favourite of mine, she even remembered that Stephen’s older daughter had loved it as a child.