I am out with the dogs, waiting for their noses to get tired. My eyes rest on the tree line over O’Keefe’s house, toward the east. There is birdsong and the constant hum of traffic from I80. Then from a dark, dusty corner of my brain someone whispers: If there was a sudden, huge flash in the east that would mean that New York City was gone. How will I get to the boys? Duncan lives outside of Boston. My brain begins to think of how to get him to head west to Grandma’s, how to get Conor to head south. Likely cell phones wouldn’t work. Then my brain adds: they should just head north to Canada, forgetting me, the dogs, the cats, and poor Rich, who by now is burning in Staten Island where he drives every day to work. It is frightening how quickly I triage the horror, and move on to the mundane bits.
This happens often.