These are the moments she'll remember the rest of her life. 

Her neighbor's face lit by fire held close and a shaking cigarette, from the third box of the day. An addiction rendered beautiful in flickering orange at burnt twilight. 

Or the secret place at the top of the roof, with a guitar and a Bible and the open stars. She keeps waiting for someone to notice her up here and call the police, or at least wave hello. Instead, it's just her and her song and the neighbor's voices, coming together in the timeworn language of the neighborhood north. 

Or dinner with friends singing for her. Two candles - one for each decade - blown out only after she wishes that she might never lose these friends. 

A phone passed around the circle with old friends and new ones together, wishing happy birthday for a friend far away.