Tell me about it, he says, and you rifle through the photo albums to send an accurate description, realizing too late what date the folders carry. Here are the chapters you don't want to see, here are the chapters you normally skip so quickly past. I don't recognize my face in these images, don't recognize the person she thought she was. How entire swaths of your memory have been erased, just to survive. You try to sidestep the chasms in conversation, try to change the subject. We've lost so much time, how can we afford to let any more run between our fingers. He skips quickly past a few folders of his own, and you realize this is the thing.
None of us are shiny and new, any more.
If you inherit a country in ruins,
how much do you really think you can make it shine again?
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