I don’t know if it is the Italian or mother in me, but I am deeply satisfied cutting a ripe banana into small round slices to feed my children. I guess it’s the innate drive to nourish. I’d get that same feeling right before feeding my babies milk, sinking into bed, blurry-eyed, while all the day’s corners fell. Every noise vanished. Every void, filled.

Watching Renee felt very, very close to how I feel when feeding my children. It was Mother's Day, and nineteen years since I'd seen her last. There she was, gentle mother, bent over her bow-mouthed babies, swooping pails, collecting nostalgia. In those hours, Renee filled the hole of curiosity I have for friends from my past -- as life has pushed on so selfishly, sometimes there’s barely time to look back. And for those few hours, the nineteen years between then and now disappeared. Because there she was, looking just like she did way-back-when, and in the moment, filling my cup.