It’s 8:30 p.m. and I’m sitting in bed with my laptop, working.

The dishes are still in the sink. The unfolded—but clean!—laundry is still in the basket. And I can’t remember if I showered. (Blame the pandemic.)

Dear Leilani,The night before you died, I had a dream about you.

We were lounging on the floor in a large room, surrounded by blankets and pillows, kids running around. It was early evening. You were relaxing, propped up by pillows; I was right next to you, my son curled up by my legs sleeping. (That’s how you know this was a dream.) We were watching some movie, I don’t remember, chatting, laughing, like old times. When I woke up, I felt like I had spent an entire evening hanging out with you. It was so comforting—and so real. I had to text you about it, remember?