August 23, 2002
When the communist came, they grazed a row of shops. My father’s shop, the artist studio and other wonderful thriving businesses. Their excuse was to build a park. My sister slept in the hammock upstairs about the shop. She somehow fell out of it and broke her arm. My father took her and me to the bonesetter. Her arm was swath in yellow medicine that pungent smell of herbal medicine. I spent hours sitting watching the artist copied and enlarge a tiny photo into a portrait for their families alter.