Dana had a girl in August.
She called me from the hospital at eleven at night and said, "She's here. She's extremely opinionated about the lighting."
"That's yours," I said.
"Yes," Dana said. "Her name is Clara."
"Clara," I repeated.
"Stop. You're going to make me cry and I've already done enough of that today."
I drove to the hospital the next morning with flowers I had picked up from the corner market and Ava in tow, because Ava had been informed there was a new baby and had strong feelings about meeting it.
Dana looked tired in the specific way of a woman who has just done the hardest thing and knows she is on the far side of it. Clara was small and alert, already watching the room with an expression not unlike her mother's.
"Look," I said to Ava. "Baby."
Ava looked at Clara wi
