We rang in the new century with my sister and her husband and the open sky, looking at the stars over Snow King and drinking Moët.

This part I know you remember.

And then you stayed the winter in Wyoming, in the mountains that we both loved (still love), with your dog (not my dog), the dog who chewed through the gear shift on your truck (because he was lonely, while you were at work), and decimated the truck’s sun visor (look, you said, now I have moon visor), and ate the entire Easter basket that my mother sent to my sister (because sometimes that’s what dogs do).

And I went back to Memphis, to my little white clapboard house, with its roses and ligustrum and creeping ivy. I slept in my bed with Ella curled in the crook of my knees, read books, and watched Sex in the City.

And now it is June, and we are negotiating your return.

While you were building antler chandeliers and tuning skis (and skiing), I was making pitchers of cosmopolitans and sitting on the rickety porch with my neighbor and his boyfriend. I started wearing suits and heels again, because I go to an office and have meetings and a Palm Pilot.

While you were away I sold my business, took a job, got a cat (not my idea, but she is dog-like and keeps Ella company), had a miscarriage, joined my father’s tennis club, started smoking again (just a little), and thought about moving on without you.

And maybe I should have, but I didn’t. Because my friend said: I don’t think he’s right for you, but it’s your decision, and I’ll stand by you, whatever decision you make. And my sister said: He is what you need; he completes you. You belong together.

My mother was diagnosed with advanced colon cancer, I said on the phone, and they’ve given her six months to live.

And you came back.