A memory of my childhood

I tell you this: Refugees dream up all the time in exile the place they have left. We carry it within us; we see it wherever we go, wherever we meet people in that place called exile. But we never easily share the pieces, the scattering memories that embed in our chests, because they belong to us and are us; we are the turmoil within us. Then, when we get the chance to return to the place of our desire, it is still infused with exiled memory. In my case, the creation of art saves me, for language by itself is just as powerful a tool as any other art medium. Carolina Rivera Escamilla