This sparse book, “an essay on pregnancy and earthquakes,” deals with the author’s dueling fears of recent and future earthquakes and her impending childbirth.
But I didn’t understand, then, how important memory is, for how do we know who we are without memory? How does anyone else know who we are, but for their memories of us?
Sometimes, thick clouds roll in like doubts, and the god-like giants are obscured to the point where I almost swear they never existed. Other days, there’s no questioning their presence.
As I worked, filing reports every night from a hotel room, the details nagged at me. Her mother, Japa Tamang, was living in an open-sided shed once used to store…
The earthquake felt like everything then. Big news, the kind no one forgets. But it all blurs and fades. I don't know if I'd even remember it at all if I hadn't been answering the phones.