Joan's on a week-long solo backpack trip, so I've brought the kids up to San Francisco to visit my father and his partner, Mariana. After seventeen years of loving each other from across town, they've finally moved in together. My father is eighty and in poor health. Mariana is sixty-four, getting ready to retire.
      Allen and Mariana live at Project Artaud, a renovated American Can Company factory in the Mission District that was taken over by hippies and artists twenty-seven years ago. My father, a runaway hippie, was one of the original Artaudians.
      He's grown old here, miraculously surviving four heart attacks and numerous other ailments. He's been in and out of the hospital so many times in the last dozen years, I've lost track. Last month, his feet were so swollen, he couldn't walk. Now he is managing short distances, and is looking better than he has in a while.
      Since it's hard for Allen to get around, we've spent most of our time in their apartment. But being in a small space with two kids isn't easy and there have been lots of fighting and tears.
      Allen says he and Mariana usually watch a movie on Saturday nights. We rarely watch movies in our house, but here, it seems like a good idea. I ask if there's a video store nearby where I could rent something the kids could also watch. Mariana says there's a Blockbuster two blocks away.
      It's seven-thirty on a summer night and we decide to make it a family outing. I've brought Justin's bike and Emily's tricycle. (The wide industrial hallways of Artaud are perfect for kids' bikes.) I say I need at least one more grown-up up to help me supervise the kids. I assume Mariana will come, but at the last minute, she says she wants to rest. Allen agrees to accompany us. I hesitate for a moment, because they'll be riding their bikes and he needs to walk so slowly, but the kids are psyched up and ready, so despite my misgivings, we head out.
      We take the freight elevator downstairs and the kids ride out through the double doors to the street. They take off down the sidewalk, much faster than I anticipate. I have to run to keep up with them, leaving Allen in the dust. He's moving very slowly, having to stop and rest at each corner. I quickly realize it's more than two blocks to the video store; it's more like five, and they're big city blocks with giant intersections and lots of fast cars.
      I lived in San Francisco for eight years, so I know the urban watchfulness you take with you on the streets. And now I'm traveling through a marginal neighborhood with two kids on bikes and an elderly man. I can feel the hairs on the back of my neck lifting. Clearly, I'm the adult in charge of this excursion. Literally, and figuratively, I am sandwiched in the middle. I don't want to leave Allen behind, leaning wearily on each lamppost, but I do, racing after Emily, who rides joyfully, oblivious to any danger.
      Suddenly, more than ever, I'm irrevocably aware that I am the person responsible for my children's safety. They assume that I will make the world right for them, that I will never lead them into danger. Now, halfway to the video store, I'm questioning my judgment and feeling the absolute weight of my responsibility for their lives.
      I can see Blockbuster Video a block and a half away, across two very busy streets, in a huge heartless mall. My heart is thumping and I feel the rush of adrenaline. I look back and Allen is still a block behind us, leaning his head on a streetlight, but I hustle on with the kids, tensely walking them and their bikes across the street. Justin says, "Mom, why do you have to be so angry? We're just crossing the street."
      When we reach the other sidewalk, Justin rides ahead, and for a moment, I lose sight of him at a crowded bus stop. I want to run after him, but I can't. My place is next to Emily, who at two, needs my supervision even more. I send out a prayer for him, and a moment later, he emerges intact from the throng.
      As we approach the mall, I see the only way to get the kids and their bikes in, is to enter directly through a big driveway that is full of cars rushing in and out. There is no pedestrian access, except up a double flight of steps. I walk the kids to the driveway, and stop cars so we can cross. I keep them close to me as we navigate through the parking lot, where every parked car represents danger. No one backing out would ever see Emily's little head through their rear view mirror. I walk by her side, scanning for movement constantly, and keep Justin close by.
      After an eternity, we finally make it to Blockbuster, and stand out front waiting for Allen. He walks painfully across the parking lot, also dodging moving cars. I long to go to him and let him press him weary hand on my shoulder, but I can't leave his grandchildren.
      Finally, Allen arrives, winded by his exertion. He sits on the edge of a planter box, wearily watching over the bikes. I take the kids into the store. I tell them I'm going to choose the movie because I want it done quickly. I pick a National Geographic video and wait impatiently in a long check-out line, angrily watching a slow-moving girl snap gum behind the counter. Why doesn't she move faster? Doesn't she know my family could get killed out there?
      By the time we emerge, the light is fading and it's dusk. The kids have never been out at night with their bikes, and neither of their bikes has a light. I carry the bikes down two flights of stairs to avoid the parking lot, and I tell Allen I'm going to go ahead with them.
      We make our way home through growing darkness, me staying close, a tense drill sergeant issuing orders. Justin notices my change in mood, but chalks it up to adult weirdness. The kids are still having a blast, racing their bikes down the wide sidewalk, enjoying the ride home in the night air. I feel like I've been through a war.
      When we reach the double doors of Artaud, I slump down and tell the kids they can ride around in front of me until Allen catches up with us. Ten minutes later he veers around the corner, breathing hard. It's dark now. Allen opens up the door and we retrace our steps, settling down on their big bed for the movie.
      I snuggle down with the kids, and reach out to take Allen's worn and gnarled hand. I thank whoever it is that kept us safe tonight, as I lay there shaken, more aware of the fragility of life than ever before.