MY UNGOLDEN POND

I also try talking to my best friend, Becky—except, mostly, I just repeat myself to Becky. This is because she conveniently forgets just enough details to make every story feel brand new. (I suspect she does this on purpose. I respect that.) This is not the life I imagined. I pictured more adventures. Fewer doctor visits. And possibly grandchildren who called me for reasons other than needing money for new shoes or a last-minute school fundraiser.