"All you have left are moments, fragments of images swimming in and out of focus: delicate fingers gliding along the piano, wrapping around a cup of steaming tea, pulling back a strand of unruly hair. The sharp ring of wind chimes distracts you momentarily and you look up, straining to feel the breeze. A pitter-patter announces the dog’s clumsy arrival; that dog, the one she called about in the middle of night, the one she cried over, the one she still misses. A thousand walks blur into one and you feel her fingers slide between yours. You squeeze reflexively, but her hand slips away. You remember a line from Junot Díaz: “It’s never the changes we want that change everything.”"