I see a great blue heron, flying north, and as we pass each other, I stifle an urge to say, Turn around, bird, New York City -- where anything is possible, where it's cruel but magical and big things can still happen -- that place is SOUTH.

It wasn't easy. I wanted to finish a book. Be a good dad. Get an MFA. Be a good husband. I'd lined up a teaching job at a university in Beirut. Got an essay in a publication that might impress you. Called my mom as much as I could. I couldn't call my dad, he was dead. When do you know if it's actually starting to add up, when you can say, OK, yes, this is real, it's actually happening.