Every year I come here, to this place that Cheever wrote about with simultaneous nostalgia and disdain. The disdain was between the lines, but I might just be projecting.

I love looking into my family member's faces and looking at the resemblance over generations. I write about this every year, too.

During her travels, K has written that playing Twister with foreigners has been more fun than she's had in six months. It lets me know that maybe a conversation is in line, maybe I need to make decisions, because I don't know what I can do anymore, I don't know what I'd even be willing to do.

She couldn't pull the emergency brake to save our lives. Could I?