Between War and Memory: When Even Survival is a Slow Death

Yesterday, my brother called me by my grandmother’s name after I had gone through all my siblings’ names before finally realizing his and addressing him correctly. My eyes widened in surprise for a moment before I burst into laughter. At just twenty-three, I had already become a grandmother–if only in name. My focus had begun to wane under the overwhelming weight of keeping pace with the relentless tide of my life. My ceaseless rambling was not the only sign… It was merely…