The memory rises like steam. A dense, soaring mist that turns gauzy before fading altogether. Me not yet four years old. My only memory of you:
The room is full of people by the time I arrive. All eyes fall on me; mine fix on you. On the floor, you lie, a white bandage with a big splotch of red on your forehead. Everyone in this room moves, so does everything. You, though, remain unmoving, unmoved. In the next room, amid a huddle of women, Aji, your mother, bawls.
