Dear Molly, You drove with the family down to a concert, folk concert, somewhere in Pennsylvania. We were in the Ford Explorer? Or a mini van, but we never owned a mini van so that can’t be right. It was the first time you ate Mr. Phips pretzel chips. There was an area next to the concert stage that was boggy with cattails and a million fireflies. You joined the general tumult of running, hiding, rolling kids whose yuppie, crunchy parents were over on the lawn on blankets watching Bill play. By then he was a friend of dad’s. It was hot during the day but became chilly when the sun went down. You were pretty young but wanted someone to kiss you. You wanted a romance.