FROM THE BOOK FIRE SEASON
ON NOVEMBER 18, 1994, I wake from a vivid dream. I sit up in bed, heart pounding, face wet with tears. My husband, Troy, asks, “What’s wrong?”
“I was falling backward … in this huge avalanche,” I sob, “and everything I owned, everything I’d ever accomplished in my life, was tumbling over me, pounding and crushing me until there was nothing but dust.”
“It was just a dream, honey.” He wraps his arms around me.
Cissy, nine, and Taylor, four, are downstairs eating Cheerios. Cartoons hum cheerily in the background. The dogs are under the table, waiting to catch any stray crumbs. I try to shake the residual feelings from the dream. “Everything’s fine; everything’s fine,” I say to myself, all day long.
After school,…
