Mira Comes — Page 44

LaGuardia arrivals (the small new Terminal B), Friday afternoon

#01

LaGuardia, Friday

LaGuardia at 2:14 PM Friday.

I'd brought a sign that said MIRA — partly a small joke. We'd agreed in eleven emails I wouldn't bring one, then a text the morning of the flight: actually, bring one, I want one. Mira comes out at 2:18. Sees the sign. Walks over without hurrying. She says "oh, Jan." Quietly. She doesn't hug me first — by four years of letters, we aren't hug-first people. Take her carry-on. Forty-two minutes to Greenpoint. We talk the entire time. Mira's voice is a half-shade softer than I'd imagined. I'd been imagining it for four years.

The old downstairs apartment (May 2030 — the move upstairs happens in late August, Pack 46)

#02

The Apartment, Mira

Mira takes her shoes off without being asked.

Sets them at the door, neat. Thirty seconds of silence. The apartment she'd been reading about for four years is now in front of her. She looks at the windowsill. The chair. The wall above the desk. Then at me. She says: "the wall is the wall." I hadn't known how much I wanted that until someone who'd read the brand walked in and said exactly it. I say yes. Put the kettle on. She goes to the windowsill. "That's Greg." Then: "she's, by the way, smaller than I had been picturing." She'd said that about me in a February 2029 letter. Laughed. Mim didn't.

#03

The Saturday Boba

In 2028, Mira had asked what brown sugar oat milk tea tasted like.

I'd said kind of like caramel with grass in it, in a good way. She'd said I'll trust you on this. The boba woman looks up Saturday morning, does the reflexive lid-press for two cups before I've finished my sentence. Mira watches. After the cups: "she's, in fact, exactly the way you described her." Mira takes a sip. "This is, in fact, like caramel with grass in it, in a good way." Finished in fifteen minutes. Said one more. I said they only have one ratio. She invented a second ratio on the spot.

McGolrick Park bench (the canon bench), Saturday afternoon

#04

The Park Bench, Three

Mira had asked for the bench specifically.

I'd said yes. After a long while: "this is a perfectly normal bench." I say yes. She says "you have made it sound like a religious object." I say I know. She says "the religious-objectness is the writing, not the bench." Then: "my father had a bench. Small park near our house in Hamilton. A brass plate — he'd donated $40 to the bench-replacement program in 1991." I say I didn't know that. She says I haven't told anyone. We sit twenty more minutes. The bench holds both of us.

The dumpling shop on Manhattan Ave, Saturday evening

#05

The Dumpling Shop, Saturday

Mira eats seven pork-and-chive.

Four vegetable. Three shrimp — we agree the shrimp is fine but not the move. She says "how often do you eat here." I say twice a month, usually. She says "I would, if I lived here, eat here three times a month." Split the bill. The son recognizes me. On a hunch he asks Mira: "are you a writer too?" She says "a small one." The son nods. She says no, you, and he does the small nod of fine, I will allow it. Mira had, in one evening, become a known person at the dumpling shop.

Saturday late evening, lamp on, the living room

#06

The Couch, Late

Saturday late.

Mira is on the couch with August's essay collection. I'm in the chair with the notebook — habit slightly relocated. Usually August is in the background; tonight it's Mira. By minute thirty-eight the cat is on the arm of the couch beside her. Mira has received the one pet. Mim hasn't moved. After a long while, Mira says: "this is, in fact, very nice." She doesn't mean the book. I say yes. More softly: "I had thought it might be awkward." I say I had too. She says it isn't. I say no. Read for another forty minutes.

#07

The Manuscript, Two Pages

Mira asks Sunday afternoon to read two pages.

I say yes. Pick them carefully — one from section two, one from section one. Give her the pages. Make tea. Don't watch her read. Seven minutes. She sets them down. She says: "this is the book the chapbook was an excerpt of." Without knowing that was August's exact phrase from December 2029 — I hadn't used it with Mira in twenty-three emails. She'd arrived at it on her own. I say yes. She says "keep going." The pages go back on the stack.

#08

The Walk to the Airport

The Uber to LaGuardia at 5:14 PM.

All weekend, neither of us had hugged. The hug at 5:08 is the final thing, not the first. Mira initiates. Four seconds. She says "come to Toronto." I say I will. She says "bring August." I say yes. She says "and Mom, if she would come." I say I'll ask. Then: "thank you for the dumplings." Then: "and for letting me read the two pages." The Uber arrives at 5:14. Walk her to the curb. She says "I'll write." I say I know. Go back upstairs. Mim is on the chair.

Wednesday morning, four days after Mira left

#09

The Wednesday-After

The Wednesday-after, the email at 9:14 AM.

Four paragraphs. The bench. The dumplings. The apartment. The cat ("who I do, in fact, understand the appeal of now"). The two pages ("I am going to be insufferable about being the second reader"). The closing: "thank you for the weekend. I had been carrying the question of what it would be like in person for four years. The question is, now, an answer. The answer is: like the letters, in voice." Signed "with love and the dumplings, M." Read it twice. Wrote a reply that was six sentences. The 48th letter. The exchange continues.