The engineer with the toddler on his shoulders sent me a photograph.
It was his little boy, asleep on his chest, with the words Some of us do come home.
I keep it on the refrigerator.
Mr. Ridley still sends the twins a stuffed seagull every birthday.
Ms. Thackeray framed a copy of page nine, with a note that said, Hang it where you can see it.
I hung it in the hallway.
It reminds me that a woman is allowed to protect herself in writing.
In the spring, I stood on the pier at Gig Harbor at nine in the morning, with a baby on each side of my chest.
They were nine months old.
Each of them held a small sign in a chubby fist, one in blue crayon, one in red.
WELCOME HOME GRANDMA.
I had helped with the spelling.
A ferry horn sounded across the water.
