Where was that restaurant she used to take me to, a tiny French place with steep stairs going up, somewhere in the East 80s, too expensive for me, an omelet and a white wine, surrounded by women with styled hair, heels, fancy shopping bags. I loved that place because I loved her. I couldn’t answer the questions she asked: How were my parents? Was I happy? It felt safe there, no men, no loud noises except laughing sometimes, and hearts of palm salad with lemony vinaigrette, me just learning to drink, and a comfortable buzz after, when she left for a meeting and I staggered around the Met looking for Greeks and Egyptians. I always visited the mummies, many on display back then when it didn’t feel wrong to stare— just an archaic warning. How imagine the world with her not in it? Her apartment looked out on 85th and Fifth. A glass dolphin on her windowsill made a prism on the opposite wall. Deep in winter the snow fell quietly on Central Park and on the gray roofs of the Museum.