The young man who came to see me a few months ago didn’t knock but stood at the doorway to my office. He was wearing baggy jeans, sneakers, a T-shirt and a baseball cap. His mink brown hair was cropped close to his head. He was handsome, with full lips and blue eyes.

“Lee?” he asked quietly. His smile was lovely and familiar enough to steal time: 30 years slipped away, and I was looking at the face of this boy’s father, my high-school boyfriend Ian. I stood up from my desk and walked to him, placing my hand on his cheek.

“Serre,” I said, “my goodness, I am so glad to meet you. You look just like your father.” He rocked his head and shifted his feet. He was uncomfortable with the comparison. But the resemblance was so stunning.

When I think of Ian, I think of endless days hanging out in the woods and fields around our New England prep schools, sucking dope out of a metal chamber pipe. His woolen overcoat smelled like smoke. He always smelled like smoke and cigarettes. He wore jeans with patches that I had lovingly hand-sewed: a red embroidered heart on the crotch, big squares of paisley and red velvet at the knees. His hair was tied back in a ponytail but cut to the school-required collar length. I loved this boy madly; he was my first true love.