For unknown reasons, we decided to move. The trailer we were pulling was white with yellow trim, just like the one I grew up in, but the inside was unfamiliar. We pulled it along on what seemed like a dangerous journey through various types of countrysides. I did not know where we were going or why.
Dad’s driving seemed erratic in some way, and when we were near water we would drive over and even on the underside of cliffs, but without incident. I was remarking mentally how miraculous it was that he could do that without the vehicle and the trailer falling in when we found ourselves off the road and floating in water, a narrow, dark channel in an industrial area or town.
I didn’t know how I could get across the cold, dark, dirty water, but somehow did. I was desperate to rescue some things, mostly photos in a couple of different places and my clarinet. I saved a box or something, but what I really wanted was to get the metal suitcase of photos. When I come back out from setting the box down, the trailer had sunk in the water, but was rising again like a body. I pushed everyone to save it on my behalf. My brother then managed to pull it onto a concrete pad, but it came back too far and hit something like a tank. I waited for an explosion that didn’t come but I was torn between trying to save my photos and the fear of being caught in a fireball. Then a truck next door tried to back across the alley and down but also hit a gas pump or tank before I could scream in warning. I waited for the explosion but, again, nothing happened. There was the silence of anticipation.