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On January 1, 2012, California extended foster care past the age of 18. Foster youth in California previously set to “age out” of the system are now given the option to remain in-care until the age of 21. Today, in The Time of the Readiness, the first set of youth to participate in extended foster care saw the erratic walls of youth collapse—and aged out. The Time of the Readiness refers to the time caretakers, social workers, probation officers all scramble to complete paperwork to prove foster youth are no longer dependents of the state. Yet, foster youth have already long learned not to depend. This is the first lesson . One day in the spring of panic and want and emptiness, my partner brought home a baby sparrow. Home is Atwater Village, a place along the L.A. River between Echo Park and Glendale, where young families settle and a posse of desperate people sometimes come to steal the copper piping and wiring from abandoned homes and cloaked by night scuttle under Toyota trucks for ...

I turned off the lights to the small room in  Telegraph Cove, Vancouver Island , plunging it into a blackness that is rarely found in an electric world. The blackness cradled me into a deep sleep, only to be rattled awake a couple of hours later, by a wall of sound. Torrential rain was lashing the window, and drumming on the roof. This was not a good omen for the day ahead, that I was to spend on a small boat, in search of a true North American idol, the  Grizzly Bear . Morning arrived, and my sense of doom was heightened as I watched little rivers snaking down the window pane, under a charcoal sky. I dressed for rain and warmth and walked to the boat. The Skipper was shaking his head and making offers of a full refund; “too much rain, we probably won’t get the boat up the river to where we have been seeing bears”. I had traveled for this trip and this was my one shot. It was a lot of money, but the opportunity was priceless. I told the Skipper...

In a boy’s hands, a trumpet, played to the open window at an hour of seven. I can’t tell you the particular bounce of the notes, or the technique used to craft the song, the scale, the high register of tune. All I know is the sound, the push of brass into the night, the wind of it really, that held me there on a narrow sidewalk in Vermont, a far stretch from my home, a place now distanced, almost a memory. I noticed the artichokes, and the sky, of course, bursting into a stream of color in moods of the sun. I sipped my beer, a cold can of hops and grain, swatted the mosquitoes from my arms, pretended the boy with the trumpet could not see me lingering on the concrete, my sandals off and tossed to the side, the pavement still warm. I faked playing with my phone so he could not tell how I listened.

When I first married the FSO—back when dinosaurs roamed!—I kept my own last name. I just didn’t see any pressing need to change it. My husband didn’t either, so we left things as they were: a Midura and a Bembry who happened to be married. Of course, I was constantly introduced as Mrs. Midura. (Who is actually my mother-in-law, but whatever.) This was annoying, but not a serious issue. The real problems started when we went overseas for the first time.