...thinking of my sister and how she clawed away at her flesh, thinking of my father who has no face, living among the undead, and I am thinking of lots of things that are gone and buried; I think further of a summer afternoon in Dalat when the patches were cinged and I could no longer eat, and I am not thinking about the walk through the forest when I had seen children without arms and a baby only 10 months younger than I who was killed by a land bomb while nestled inside her mother's bosom, and I did not always know who was doing this or why, but after a while it did not seem to matter; still, my brother did not come back, and I did not want to lose the others...