Roula 1995 File

No. I came because my mother had started sleeping in the guest room. Because my father's silences were louder than any argument. Because I had punched a wall in Connecticut and broken my knuckles and felt nothing.

On my last night, we sat on her balcony. The jasmine had bloomed—white stars against black iron. She gave me a small brass key on a leather cord. "What's this?" I asked. Roula 1995

"Not where. When. I am leaving the country. September. My aunt in Montreal. She has a diner. I will serve eggs and coffee to strangers who will never know my father's name." Roula 1995

"I am."