“You don’t need to worry, you know,” my mom says. Sometimes I think she can read my mind.
“Yeah, I know.” I stare down at my tie-dye crocs. Then I look up.
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“As I waded into the water with heavy gear weighing me down, I tried to push away my nerves and focus on the waves slapping the golden sand.”
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“My blanket, mi cobijita, flew through the Colombian sky and landed safely in a package from my mother’s childhood friend. A week later, the precious gift stroked my rosy hands at birth.”
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“Are you recording her?” I asked.
“Yes. Yes. Look at her, she looks like a crazy person,” she replied with a laugh.
These words will never leave me and will always be my nightmare as long as I’m alive.
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“‘Six feet apart please, six feet apart,’ I called out as I paced down a long line of food bank recipients that wrapped around the entrance…”
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“When my great-grandmother S. was my age, seventeen, she left her home in Warsaw, never to see her parents again.”
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