I think of jasmine blooming in a garden once tended by a refugee, my father. How he bent his back in the San Diegan sun on Kumeyaay land: reborn after violence in a land claimed by violence. How he persevered to nurture tiny fragrant flowers despite history. This is what I was taught: coax delicate beginnings out of dry hard earth with your bare hands. Plant your yearning for home in a small hole in the ground. Rub dirt over it and water with the names of lost beloveds. Say a prayer to diaspora: I won’t forget.

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