Dear Ebony,

The last time I saw you, it was an accidental meeting along Precita Park. You carried a bag of oranges. “Erin!” you said. “The next round of commissions is coming up. You should apply.” I asked you when. “Later this summer, early fall,” you said.

I am sure we both fully expected that I would apply, and that you would be the point person when I did. Sometimes our assumed assumptions are taking too much for granted.

I hope the oranges were delicious. And thank you for the reminder. I will apply, though you are not there to read it.


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