Making memories for one another soon became second nature. Every time a hummingbird came to the feeder outside your bedroom window, you’d watch it intently so that later I could marvel at its throbbing little body and blur of wing beats, be enchanted by the beady eyes glistening with sunlight and those metallic-green feathers like finely tasseled scales running down its back. In search of scenery you’d like, I spent an afternoon wandering the island where a gallery was showing Mom’s latest work. With every exchange of memories, we gave each other a new way to be elsewhere and elsewhen—a moment for the mind to slip into whenever the fancy struck. Until we found out that our memories could get mixed up.