December, 2003; October, 2005
A beautiful two-story house with white columns on both porches and a palm tree in the front yard stands on a tree-lined street in a historic Columbia neighborhood. I drew the design of it on a napkin in Shoney’s; the builders were sitting across from me, and Caroline’s eyes were lighting up as she suggested changes she would like me to make.
“We can do that,” the builders nodded as they stared at the napkin.
It was Caroline’s idea to try to live downtown when we moved to Columbia. …

I can’t breathe. There’s no air in this room, even with the window cracked. That last breath was probably my last, and this is where it ends, in this apartment, this bedroom, this shrine to my childhood my parents have created. There’s the game ball from a no-hitter. A plastic trophy for graduating kindergarten. A framed newspaper article with a picture of me sliding into second, spikes raised thigh-high (I dare you to tag me, I dare you), a prom photo from the only one I didn’t take her …