Maybe that’s why I’m writing now, even as logic tells me it’s hopeless.
what will he do when he hears the news? When my emails and video messages come to a sudden halt, how will he react? How will I make it through losing the four of them? I used to think communicating through a computer screen would never be enough, but now it seems like the ultimate privilege. Just imagining my parents and Sam holding each other in grief at a memorial ceremony, staring at my photo while mourners recite Rūmī, hurts worse than any physical pain. I can’t live with them thinking I’m dead. And that’s what has me wide-awake and clammy with sweat in the middle of the night, afraid that if I open my mouth I’ll start screaming and never stop. We’re going dark and you won’t know why or what it means, but you’ll assume the worst. I don’t think I’ve ever felt so helpless as I do now, writing to an entire population that will never see these words. You don’t know what’s happened until after-when the creeping sense of dread moves beyond your body and takes the form of a flawed ship. A wire doesn’t make a sound when it snaps. But up here, it’s easy to miss the trigger altogether. Others come on all at once, as violent as they are quick, like the earthquakes and hurricanes that wrecked us back home. Some disasters begin with a warning, an iceberg you can spot from miles ahead.
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