In August I drove to Blair's apartment for the first time in six years. It was on the fourteenth floor of a glass building with a doorman who knew her name and a lobby with orchids that someone else watered. She met me at the elevator in jeans and no earrings and led me into a living room with a wall of windows and a small table covered in stationery.
She was writing cards. Fifty of them. Names and addresses in a neat black hand, one line of personal news each, a stamp in the corner. She had been doing it for an hour when I arrived.
"You handwrite all of them," I said.
"I type the addresses. The notes I write." She capped her pen. "Danielle's getting married in October. Marcus got into a PhD program. Priya's mother died, so hers is different this year."
I sat down at the table and look
