My six-year-old nephew crawled seven blocks carrying his little sister—then doctors and police uncovered why my brother’s children had vanished from my life for three years
porch, I found an unopened box in the back of my hall closet.
I had been clearing it out — the specific domestic activity of a house that now had children in it and required regular reorganization to prevent total entropy. The box was small, wrapped in paper with cartoon animals on it, a tag in my own handwriting.
