“Why?” was the only thing running through my mind, searching for the meaning. Any. But I should have known there was none. I should have realized all his collections from garbage dumps were the memories thrown out by others. Unspoilt childhoods, uninterrupted school years, enduring love; all unburnt objects, unbroken, possessed by happiness.
I hadn’t understood that he couldn’t afford to remember, that he needed to forget the ones of his own. It was still all there, as if it was yesterday – cries, gunshots, cracking bones, the smell of smoke. And then screaming silence through the years.
Image courtesy of Rochelle Wisoff-Fields