We All Want Impossible Things

by Catherine Newman

Now she wants to work a little bit on the letter she’s leaving for Dash, which is a combination of memories from his childhood and advice for his future self. I sit up in bed next to her, transcribe while she talks. She says a mix of normal things and crazy things: He should always splurge on Valrhona chocolate for baking, even though it costs a fortune (Okay!); he’s going to feel like he’ll never get over his first heartbreak, but he will, she promises him, he will feel better and better until there’s just a tiny invisible scar where his heart healed (So true!); if he ever feels strange and isn’t sure why, he should try eating a snack with a lot of protein in it, like cottage cheese or low-sodium beef jerky (Solid.); Bon Ami works as well as the toxic bathroom cleaning stuff and it’s just made of . . . chicken bones, she thinks, or maybe eggshells? (Sounds good.); he should play tennis—he should be sure to learn tennis and play it a lot and get really really good at tennis. I stop typing. “Hey, Eds,” I say. “This one seems a little stressful to me. Nobody in your family actually plays tennis.” I picture Dash with a little Björn Borg sweatband around his head, sobbing over a missed forehand. It was my mother’s dying wish!