A few years ago I was having lunch with mom, when I recognized our server. She was about my age, and I couldn’t place her. She could have been a distant relation or someone I see every day in some other context.

She gave us our bill, and I saw her signature in big balloon letters. “Chrystal,” with a cartoon smiley face. I remembered who she was.

“Did you go to grade school over here? Over at Franklin?” I asked, bobbing my head toward the window. “I think we were in, like, second grade together.”

She tucked some hair behind her ear and looked at me, then snapped her fingers and pointed.

“That’s where … I thought. Yeah, I remember you,” she said.

“Beth,” I said, putting out my hand, but she slapped her thigh instead of taking it.