I remember him poorly, so when he gets here, he is a white smear draped across the floor like a bad suggestion.

“It’s been a while.”

“Likewise.”

His visits are conducted in the mid-afternoons when the sun slants through the taped-up kitchen window, paling the couch cushions blue. I always make tea for him in the family way: Lipton steeped multiple bags at a time, thick and fast, no sugar, one spoon of condensed milk. Gestures like this are specific enough to ground a man.

He waves an arm—or something—around the room. “Just got in touch with Uncle Cheng and his children. They are doing well on the top floor. Thought you’d like to hear.”

“Good to hear.”

“Is everything well?”

“Everything is well. The house is in order.”

The connection jitters. Briefly I recall setting up the cushions, vacuuming the floor, preparing the things for his visit. The shape of memory is like cooking oil. Sticks to itself, forms little circles where the surface’s clean. He flickers, settling in the ornamental vase among the umbrellas.

“Have they said when it will end?”

“Soon.”

I haven’t checked the news in months. I do not know what manner of papers are piling up at my door. The letters take strange shapes and shift when I’m not looking. The crisis comes to affect materials and their representations too.

“You’re thinner than I remember. I hope you’re eating well.”

“I’m eating well.”

“You were so tall back then. You looked so smart in your suit and tie.”

“Don’t talk about such things. Remind us of how we are, not how we used to be.”

That’s quite difficult to do. My memory feels stuck. The past is made of such a sticky substance. So tempting to let it adhere to its old agendas. But I also feel myself melting through the wire as he speaks. He is remembering me too.

Too much of a past is a bad thing.

“You wrote a lot back then. I hope you’ll be able to write soon.”

“I don’t think it’ll be easy.”

“You were not very good at expressing yourself.”

“It’s true. Ma always did the talking.”

“As did you, when it suited you.”

Carefully, slowly, each remaking the other.

I wonder how I appear on his end of the call. Every time is different. Today it’s more tentative, like I’m a star in his telescope. I feel distant. But solid. Perhaps things are a little more consistent in his office. Perhaps they have a memex.

Eventually we broach the hard questions.

“Who’s left?”

“You, ma, sis. A few friends from university: Joseph, Kay Soon, Man Ting, Diya. They are all doing well. They wish you well.”

“Well, I wish them well too.”

“And you?”

“Mr. Lee, Mdm. Song, Ismail, Wayne. I think Auntie Soon the cleaning lady. And Uncle Cheng and his family. And my father, and his nurse.”

“I hope everything’s okay.”

“I hope so too.”

There are not many of us left. Each conversation inscribes us anew. After the calamity there is little else we can do but to bring each other to ourselves, trapped in our cars and trains and offices and homes. And in the places where we briefly touch we know our own shapes again. And when we split we promise to hold the same space so that our loved ones will fit again.

“I love you.”

His figure seems a little clearer now. I smile.

We end on the customary phrase.

“I hope this email finds you whole.”