Buried questions
They say time reveals the truth. I say memory preserves it. Some stories live in silence for so long, they begin to ache inside the bones of those who carry them. They don’t scream for attention. They whisper. They tug gently, again and again, until one day, you finally sit down and listen. This book is the result of such whispers. It was sometime after Mother’s Day this year that the whisper became a pull. A sense of urgency washed over me, a need to speak, to document, to tell a story that had long been passed down in fragments, through looks exchanged between my parents, pauses in their words, and the heaviness in their silences. It was no longer enough to know the story in my heart. I had to write it. My parents will celebrate twenty-five years of marriage this July. I wanted to gift them something personal. Something lasting. Something beyond material. And then I remembered what my mother once told me during the COVID lockdown years ago, when the world had slowed down enough ...