When flood waters wash up memories of a refugee childhood
By Anna Abramzon
I couldn’t cry during the flood, but I did beg. Please God, just don’t let my kids lose theirhome. Because I know what it’s like to not be able to go home.
When the water came to our doorstep, we forced our crying kids into a kayak. Alma’s eyes were so wide. She is seven. I wanted nothing more than to comfort her, to reassure her, but what was there to say? It was still raining. So hard. Suri, our three-year-old, screamed as I tore Lovie and Blankie from her pudgy hands. It killed me to take away her sources of comfort, but I couldn’t risk her dropping them in flood waters. There was no time for negotiations. It was hard to think, and the rain just kept pounding down. It was so loud. Like a shower that you can’t turn off. I followed my husband…
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