text: “Wow.” There is a lengthy pause as she stares across the table. Her eyes scan every detail of the face before her. “I never thought I’d see you again,” she says. “I never thought I’d see you ever.” She slouches in her chair. “You’re very pretty.” “Uh, no I’m not. I have this huge zit in the middle of my face.” She crosses her arms and looks away. She smiles, remembering those days. “It’s barely noticeable and--” She raises her palms, covering her face and shouts, “Noticeable means you noticed!” “It’s on your chin, hardly the middle of your face.” She pauses, considers, then continues. “You did a really great job with the cover-up. Honestly, if you hadn’t said anything, I wouldn’t have noti- seen it at all.” She drops her hands and sits up taller. “You’re pretty, too. Like, better than I would have thought.” “Uh, thanks?” “You’re welcome.” “I look old.” “You are old.” “I’m tired.” She adjusts her glasses and rubs her eyes. “Not as tired as me.” She also rubs her eyes and adjusts her glasses. “I like what you’ve done with your hair, though. It’s a good color and the style is flattering.” Her shoulders slump once again. “I wish I had nicer hair.” “Are you kidding? I would love to have your hair. It’s so--” “Thick!” “-thick. And the curls-” “Curly! Ugh.” She smooths the fly-aways that end at the base of a ponytail. “Are you playing tennis?” She grows animated for the first time. “I am! Hoping to make Varsity this year.” “Good luck.” “Thanks, I need it.” “You need to believe in yourself. You got this!” “Pfft. How about you? Do you play?” She chuckles. “I do. But, hmmm, how do I say... I am much less competitive now.” Her eyes widen at the idea of not being competitive. “I guess I outgrew the need to win. Plus, you know, I’m not as agile as I used to be.” “Do you exercise regularly? I hear people your age need to exercise regularly.” “Regularly is subjective,” she says. “It’s funny, I hated gym class in high school but as an adult, I kind of wish it was required for life.” “I hate gym class. Jazzercize?” She chuffs, crosses her arms. “So stupid. And the uniforms. Gross. You know half the kids never even wash them? Leslie removed her shirt from the locker the other day and it was stiff from dried sweat. She shook it out and the whole row smelled like B.O.” She gags. “Then, she wore it.” “Sometimes it’s the actions of others that help us find our own way.” She gives her a look of mock and awe. “Fortune cookie says what?” “What? Oh, haha.” “So, what do you do? You know, for like work and stuff?” She sighs. “Definitely not what I always thought I would be doing.” “So, no professional tennis career?” They both laugh. “No, and no marine biology off the Pacific Northwest either.” “That’s okay. Cascadia wasn’t really your dream job. It was just an excuse to get the hell out of dodge.” They share a moment of silence. “Nice clothes, you must be successful.” “Success is relative.” “Got any kids?” “I do! A daughter. She’s wonderful. Smart and funny.” She smirks. “Competitive. I think you’d like her.” “Husband?” This is asked with more hesitation and perhaps less interest. She bobs her head. “Just one?” “At a time? Of course!” They laugh. “Seriously, though. Just one. We were married for a very long time.” Her voice dips as she grows wistful. “I’m sorry.” She wipes a tear. “How about you? Are you dating?” She practically howls. “Dating? Sounds so formal.” Then her demeanor settles. “No,” she offers with a shrug. “Who would want to ‘date’ this?” Her hand moves along her body in an all-encompassing gesture. “Stop! You’ve got a lot to offer. Smart, funny, cute.” “Easy for you to say. You’re all put together.” This elicits a groan. “How about school? You like school, right?” “I like being at school. It’s not home.” Another shared moment of silence. “You applying to colleges yet?” She balks. “I’m barely a Junior. That comes next year.” “Ah, okay. What classes do you enjoy?” “I love science. And despite getting straight A’s, I do not love math. They keep making me take next level courses even though I’ve met all the requirements for graduation. I’m only a Junior!” She nods sympathetically although she believes that’s a good thing. “And socially? Who are your friends?” She grows sad. “Donna moved over the summer.” “I remember. I’m sorry.” “And then Kate went to Europe with Beth’s family so now they’re like BFFs.” She’s sinking into the seat again. “Must be nice to have an established circle of friends.” She ponders, then scoffs. “Co-workers. Neighbors. But friends?” “You don’t have the same peer pressures.” “Jesus, don’t get me started on pressures.” “I can’t wait to grow up.” “I wish I was young again.” “You are so lucky,” they recite in unison. No laughter this time as they reach across the table and clasp hands. “I can’t wait to be-” “I wish I was-” “You,” they say together. They rise and walk around the narrow table, meeting in an embrace. “You are amazing,” they both say, words tumbling out in synchronized rhythm. They laugh. “Say it,” she says a beat before the other. “You say it,” she repeats. “Together?” “Can we help it?” They laugh again. She hugs her tighter and whispers, “On three... one.” “Two.” Their voices overlap, “I am amazing.” And for the first time, they believe it. They begin giggling. The giggles erupt into full, robust, genuine laughter. The kind you feel through your whole body. The kind you couldn’t stop even if you tried, not that you’d want to. The sound sparkles, the sparkles grow. They clutch each other as the shower of lights consumes them, breaking off into a cascade of floating stardust. “Farewell, mom,” the daughter says, tipping the ashes into the coastal breeze. “I hope you know how amazing you are.”