My mother and I are talking more. She is in the early stages of planning a trip to Ireland, which was a dream of hers that she had deferred for years, and she called me last week to talk through the logistics. She wanted my opinion on things but she also asked it rather than just presenting the problem and waiting for me to solve it. I noticed the difference. I think she noticed that I noticed.
Becca and I are, as I hoped, people who actually know each other now. We have had lunch twice, on our own, in the city. She is funny and perceptive and has a particular way of describing situations that makes them both clearer and more absurd, which is a quality I find deeply valuable. I think we will be friends in the durable sense of the word.
The watercolor painting I gave Claire and Owen is hanging in their apartment. I noticed it when I visited in September. It’s above the gallery wall, which is a placement I wouldn’t have chosen but which works. Claire saw me looking at it and said: “I love it. We love it.” I said I was glad. That was the whole exchange. It was enough.
The sage green bridesmaid dress was never made, obviously. When Claire and I talked about it later, she laughed — not a performative laugh but the genuine kind, at the absurdity of the detail — and said she couldn’t believe that had happened via text. I said at least she’d included me in the decision by letting me know afterward. She threw a pillow at me from across the couch.