By Mina Rozario
There is an odd gap in my memory the day that fire started in your greenhouse. You ran, panicked, straight into the blaze, with nothing to protect you from the fumes except for a thin scarf wrapped around the lower part of your face. I hung back outside, rooted to the ground, unable to fathom what drives people to plunge headfirst into burning buildings. Love? A lack of self-preservation? After what felt like an hour of standing in a numb stupor, I finally dialed 9-1-1, desperately trying to remember the last thing I had said to you in case it was the last thing I would ever say to you. Something about trying out for the school tennis team? I’m not sure that you were really listening, but you yourself had told me more than once how hard it had been for us to bond when you were a young mother and I was a colicky infant. I sometimes got less than ten minutes of sleep a night, you would say, then add that you were so exhausted for the first two years of my life that you would suffer hallucinations. You’d top it all off with a small laugh, as if it were all said and done, but there would be a tight, brittle note to your voice.
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