My grandmother lives in a country of locked memories. She was forced to reside there like a displaced person in a refugee camp wandering aimlessly between what was and what could have been. I am keenly aware that my own journey may end this way as well, born again as an old woman and child at the same time, in a country I don’t know, surrounded by no one speaking my language. A few things happened awhile ago which threw my life into that kind of chaos where even gossip mongers can’t best the story for fear of missing a single note. I wanted to write it down. Write it all down so that my children could laugh and cry with my sisters and I, well beyond the time limits of my fragile memories.
On September 28, 2011, a Wednesday, I won the lottery. Sixteen million dollars. I have not told anyone yet.
Two days later on a very dark Friday, my nephew of 22 years died suddenly. He lies in an undignified state at the coroner’s office and whereas he sleeps, we stay awake in horror.
The family has allowed me to begin recounting the paths that led us here, embracing the sweet aroma of home grown from the House of Pot (details forthcoming), on the patio of Tammy, former cult member, grieving mother, my sister.
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