March 30th, 2006 • Quill Archives
‘The story of our lives’

The wavy brown line, where Lake Pontchartrain lapped against the house, streaks the weatherboards five feet above my head. Tiny, petrified frog carcasses are plastered to the walls. Inside, the mold reaches to the ceiling. I gaze at the ruined remnants of 16 years of family life — paperbacks swollen from immersion exploding their bookcase, slides from family trips blackened, Mardi Gras beads spilling out of the attic.