I pointed to the wound. "It's missing," I said. My grandmother smiled, and that was all it took for me to stop seeing the scar, and to recognize her again. "Yes," she said. "But see how much of me is left?
I never said I do not remember, my grandmother corrects. I said I prefer to forget.
My grandmother told me that her father used to ask her a riddle: What must you break apart in order to bring a family close together? Bread, of course.