At first, there was nothing to do but watch. For days, before the trucks arrived, before the work of clean-up, my brother sat on the stoop and watched.
Somewhere in the post-Katrina wreckage and disarray of my grandmother’s house, there is a photograph of my brother Joe and me, our arms around each other’s shoulders. We are at a long-gone nightclub in Gulfport, the Terrace Lounge, standing...