I want to go back in time. Back to when you and I were friends. Thirty years ago, when we were neighbors living at home with our families.

My mum passed away that year. The same year we moved into the house next door to yours. You always said our crossing of paths was “meant to be.”

I was nursing my three-week-old baby when the phone rang. It was Jim, the husband of my dearest friend Marjy. He called to tell me she was dead.

Poof. Gone. Just like that.

A week before Amy Coney Barrett is confirmed to be a Supreme Court Justice, cementing a 6-3 conservative majority with the potential of overturning most landmark decisions protecting queer and female reproductive rights, my roommate and I drive aimlessly around St. Louis in her tiny, two-doored, baby blue Mini Cooper.

I snapped Amelia’s car seat into the stroller and fanned out the visor to keep out the sun and the wind, which were both persistent. Amelia slept undisturbed. I put on my sunglasses, pushed my hair out of my eyes, and headed for the zoo’s entrance.

We began with Martha the cat, Nashville, Tennessee, 1974. Mary and I had not yet met, but Muffy, a mutual friend, was helping Mary find a place to leave her cat, Martha, for a week or two during Christmas. Jeffrey and I lived in the country, and Muffy delivered Martha to us. Three weeks later, Martha was still with us.