You tell him that most days you do not think of the Old Country at all. That it would be a lie to say that you hold the place close to your heart, that your ancestors speak to you in any profound whisper of the spirit. You tell him that all you have are some stories, and some carpets. A Daido your father carved out of rock that your brother tried to sell, with no luck, to a man who didn’t care.
I'm crying why am I crying?
