A former student came back with her younger brother and introduced me as the teacher who knew where everything was. I would have preferred a reference to reading, but she was smiling, and then she remembered the small blue chair she used when the room felt too loud. That pleased me more than I could explain in the hallway. I had forgotten that particular chair mattered to her. She is so tall now that I had to look up while she spoke. After they left, the room seemed briefly full of children who are no longer five. I was happy to see her, and a little sorry the visit was already over.

I am trying to choose a restaurant for my daughter's visit without writing an itinerary for an afternoon she has not yet agreed to spend in any particular way. Lunch at one seems reasonable until I add travel, parking and the errand I hoped we could do together. Then I have her back in the car before she has sat down. She said she mainly wanted to see us. I keep treating that as incomplete information, although it is fairly clear. I have saved the restaurant address and left the time open. The empty space on the calendar is bothering me more than a lunch reservation should.

I spent part of the evening sorting picture books on the living-room floor and forgot that my knees no longer consider this a neutral position. When I stood, I had to use the sofa arm and wait before taking the first step. Not a crisis, simply inconvenient. I moved the remaining pile to the table and noticed how much easier it was to breathe without folding myself around a stack of books. The room was warm, my sleeves were pushed up, and I was hungry enough to stop before the pile was finished. My husband found a bookmark stuck to my elbow. At least it was not another label.