Any attempt at introspection into my own diaspora experience is fraught with failure.
It is always memory that fails me first.
Hard trying to remember your earliest childhood memories.
I remember getting scratched by our house cats, my mom loved cats.
And the cockatoo my dad would take out into the balcony of our fourth floor apartment
in the city both my parents were raised in, before we moved.
After my memory fails me and I can’t remember myself any younger.
I search through my families most treasured possession, a catalog of memories.
Till all the memories become too familiar and too common;
too close and far from home at the same time.
If I’m lucky I have rare glimpses of complete lucidness.
I see all those passed down memories and my own at once.
And it floors me,
ripping at every fiber of my sanity first,
then my emotions.
Then I break.
Image Credit: Damascus’ Memory and Its Present by Anas Salameh.