The older I get the more instances I encounter in which I wish I’d known my last time with a person was going to be my last time with that person, in the flesh, ever. Elizabeth, in your case, it was a party where we played mahjong to raise money for the school some of our kids go to, on April 6. I hadn’t seen you or had the opportunity to talk to you for more than 3 minutes in what felt like a really long time. You told me you were leaving early because you and your staff were going to have a booth at the Alameda antiques fair, which I know diehards arrive at when the doors open at 6am *on a Sunday*. You said to me, and I quote, “You don’t even want to know what time I get up to be ready,” meaning you needed enough time to shower and dress and do your hair and put on makeup—the whole 9 yards. And I nodded and said, yep, you’re right because that sounded *exactly* like you. You wanted to put your best self forward, even if you lost a bit of sleep over it. Still, you sat and learned to play this esoteric game of tiles favored by older Chinese and Jewish ladies the world over, and we laughed about having no idea if we were playing correctly or nor, but trying anyway. I don’t remember if I hugged you when I first saw you ... It bothers me now, not remembering. I don’t I know where you are now, but I imagine it to be some amazing amalgam of fragrant, flowering gardens and European art, architecture, and food. There’s an ocean or deep blue lake there too, calm, inviting, and lapping gently at the edge of where you’re sitting, in your swimsuit, a towel wrapped around your shoulders, a glass of something sparkling at hand, and the early evening light bent in just such a way that the world appears as it should be, an invitation to explore and share the magic you find on your journey.