In a few minutes, she was on her BlackBerry with the other artists, struggling with some of the technical aspects of the work on display, but it didn't matter. The pieces were amazing. As a collective body of work, they were quite strong.
And in the midst of it all, bobbing amongst the pieces of furniture emerging from the concrete floor as though carried along on a gray tide, was this:
Update, 9:52 PM: And go read while you are at it. Yesterday.
A week later, K and I went back and were able to salvage a few more things. But for the most part, we donned face masks, gloves, and boots and carted everything we'd once owned out onto the curb. At one point we took a break, and watched as a man pulled up, got out of his truck, and started rooting through our things while we stood on the porch and watched him. I remember crying as he put Emmeline's mold-covered crib and a few other items in the back of his truck and drove off. I wanted to run after him and curse him for having the gall to pick through our belongings while we stood and watched--to me, he was no better than a grave robber. But instead, K and I went back inside and continued throwing what used to be our things into garbage bags and continued carrying them out to the curb. And I still worry about whatever little boy or girl may have ended up sleeping in that crib.