Every library I visit during my travels reminds me of my mother. The countless days we’d walk over to our local library, plastic Food Max bags filled to its handles with books. She educated her children in a country that never recognized her as its own blood, despite how much she bled on its grounds. I spend every moment questioning how to heal her wounds. So I write each day, hoping letters, ink, keystrokes, and pages can cure the anguish that seeps through her veins. One day, it will.