Grandmothers’ recipes. Memories of grandfathers who gardened. Our daughter’s baby book which I always promised I’d retrieve first in case of fire or earthquake. I’d like to say I would remember to bundle the two-inch thumb drives that contain everything we’ve written in recent years, but maybe it would be better to make it out with only our fresh imaginations in tact. Pack all the photographs instead. That beloved baby book so full that it is tied and retied with mended bands. I will insert between the pages, one love letter each from the forgiven and sensuous men, and the reliable women too. Exercises in cursive pen and epistles of regret. I will bundle up the scent of purple wisteria encroaching on the second floor window of a former San Francisco Sunset kitchen. The first hour in which my husband walked into the bookstore where I was working. His blue eyes and his wounded silence questioning everything. My mother and my father, even as they carry their own remo