How Dare the Sun Rise: Memoirs of a War Child

by Sandra Uwiringiyimana

We never got to bury Deborah. I never saw her grave. I didn’t even get to see her face after she died. If only I had known that I would never see her again, I would have spent the years learning every curve on her face, studying those long eyelashes, memorizing the way her lips curled into a funny little twist when she was happy. I would have paid more attention. When I think of her infectious smile and those black curls and big dark eyes, I can’t help but wonder what my baby sister would look like now. She would be eighteen years old today if her life hadn’t been cut short. Beauty like that was never meant to last in this cruel world.