My prom date, the spy I thought my Russian boyfriend's parents were journalists. My bureaucrat dad was convinced they were spies. At the height of a drought, when even spiders beg for a drink, thoughts drift to the basement visits of childhood. You wrestle one of those black plastic trash bags off the roll and fill it in one sweep of the arm and drag the loaded bag toward the front door. You just go.
Survival pares the possibilities.
As my Oakland, Calif., neighborhood went up in flames on a high-wind dry October day eight years ago, my friend up the hill had no time even for the photo albums. The fire was coming at them too fast. Of all that she lost, which was everything, it was the pictures that still make her feel the sickest. But we were 12 blocks down. Our street was in smoke but not in flames.