Summer came.
The babies were two years old and the city was warm and we spent weekends in the park and evenings on the brownstone terrace and the ordinary accumulation of a life that was good continued to accumulate.
I had been thinking about something for six months and on a Saturday in July I finally did it.
I drove to Queens.
Not for any particular errand. Just to go. Back to the street where I had grown up, the building that was in Annalise Forsythe's photograph of me at nineteen. The neighborhood I had left for law school and not returned to except in memory.
It was the same. Smaller than memory, which is always how it works, but the same. The corner grocery where we had bought bread. The park where I had read textbooks on the bench by the fence. The window of the apartment four
