You don’t get to choose what you remember. A patchwork memory is the shame of a refugee. Did I tell you that already? I could still tell you how I left the toys in my room. How many Orich bars I left in that bus cushion. But I couldn’t tell you what it feels like to have a grandpa. I also forgot Italian when I learned English. I also forgot all the bad things about my dad when I met Ray. I also forgot my granddad on my mom’s side, but he’s less important because I think he’s a killer who married a child bride.
