This--this knitting of headlines and family dramas--has turned my memories into a composite of what's happened both inside and outside of our house. Four years ago this month, I remember standing in a Long Island field, watching Alice ride as I dialed Bill in South Africa. He was there with Molly, and they were waiting to meet Nelson Mandela--but the purpose of my call was to tell Bill his mother had just died. Or the Sunday of President Obama's inauguration weekend, where we shared a family breakfast on our trip, quietly celebrating Bill's 60th birthday. Or another year, a few days after Christmas, when we landed in St. Thomas, learning that Benazir Bhutto had been assassinated while we were airborne--and also, that one of our bags was missing. It would always be like this.