I hate losing touch with people. Feels like I’ve drop the ball. The cosmic ball, I suppose. Maybe your name is Karen, and your last name is Roberts or Robard or Robards or Roberts or something else entirely, and you went to school in Evansville, Indiana, and drove a huge brown Cadillac and we watched Audrey Hepburn movies and were glad that she was skinny because so were we, though she wore it better — let’s be honest — and you had big sunglasses before they were really ubiquitous. You were a terrible driver, it was like the car was too big for you and was actually doing the steering, while you had to battle to keep it in line; you always threw out the “mom arm” at quick stops — and you had a boyfriend that you drove back to Indiana to see every single weekend, and you lent me books on Buddhism that helped keep me sane when living in Cincinnati, Ohio. I think you were an English major. We interned together at F&W Publications in Cincinnati in 2000, the summer I was pretty sure that life after college was a death sentence. Apparently my memory holds many facts about that summer but your last name isn’t one of them. And the facts I’ve got aren’t coming up in Google.