I wake up sweating and lie there as the adrenaline ebbs, running through what I would take, if I had to leave. The mental cataloging starts: what I have lost already; what I have yet to lose; an inventory of what matters.
The bat is so itty-bitty-teeny-tiny her body embraces only half my thumb, to which she clings during our first moments. Clings to with eyes shut: either because she naturally re-immersed herself in torpor, or from exhaustion.
In the first moments of Saturday, Aug. 12, 1995, in Shreveport, Louisiana, my older brother, Russell, age 42, was finishing up his shift as a minimum-wage, 54-hour-a-week stock clerk at Thrifty Liquor.
The small kitchen was packed with unfamiliar people and seventies decor. I’d made friends with one person, though, a younger guy who’d asked me for one of my cigarettes because he only had Camels but loved my brand.
His memoir, Home Is Burning, about [Marshall] and his siblings caring for their dad while he battled it out with Lou Gehrig’s disease and their mom with cancer, is nitty gritty reality at its harshest, complete with poop scenes.