November 2, 2008
I’d had a corduroy childhood and there was no escaping it. Returning after 6 years overseas I sat in my parents chocolate brown over stuffed, house-museum of the previous four decades (including the one I was last for). Hopeless. It came back to me. I'd longed for another family then, I long for one now. Under inches of dust, the lacquered wood collection (clocks, barometers, souvenirs) displayed proudly in the lounge corner. I thought about Aziz who I met two weeks before. He had refugee status. I had to leave the country. He had no legs because of the war.