My mom and I haven't spoken in 30 years, since I was a child, but I know a few things about her. My grandmother, who gave me her phone number, told me she never remarried after she and my father divorced. I also scanned through a couple of her academic papers online while rolling the small piece of paper with her phone number on it between my thumb and index finger. I assume her students did an Internet search on their professor and found the same mug shot that I did. I roll her phone number into a nice cylinder and then roll it back out flat and look at the digits.

She lives in sunny Florida, but when I imagine where she’ll be when I call, it’s dark and lonely. I pick up the receiver. Florida is three hours ahead, lunchtime. I want to catch her before her first glass of wine.

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