Unable to visit—we live on opposite coasts—I sit before my computer. There, Kay is next to her husband Walt, whom I’ve never met. She appears unchanged, her long hair not yet gray, her oval face only slightly more taut than I recall. But her expression is grim and distant. Since the diagnosis, her decline has been swift. Memory care looms. I want to reach out and close the distance between us. The screen is not the only barrier. Walt greets me as if this is an ordinary day, while adjusting Kay’s pillows for her comfort. Responding to his cheerfulness with fond recollections, I tell him that in high school, Kay and I transferred together to the same school but then I went back. Better at integrating, she stayed. After I moved east, we talked rarely but when we did, her warmth was always there. When Covid was at its worst in New York, she called to see how I was holding up. Kay is even unaware of the screen. She wants to turn away or …