One Day We'll All Be Dead and None of This Will Matter: Essays

by Scaachi Koul

Nothing bad can happen to you if you’re with your mom. Your mom can stop a bullet from lodging in your heart. She can prop you up when you can’t. Your mom is your blood and bone before your body even knows how to make any.

But the only way to do better, to have better, is to lose pieces of what was. It’s inevitable that you can’t bring everything with you, like carrying water in your cupped hands from one river to another. There are too many cracks, and if you’re so eager to move, you’ll just have to get used to new water.

These sounds don’t feel the same. They don’t feel as comforting, because they are mine, are my responsibility, while the ones at home are my parents’—the promise that everything is fine, consistent, safe at home.