It all seems so surreal. That tree, the one across the street, has been chopped down, replaced by a small rose garden. And that house, that crumbling thing on the next block, has been repainted beyond recognition. The laundry still gets hung out to dry every day; it still flutters in the wind. The youngest children, the ones who are yet too young for school, run and play in the unpaved streets—there has been a construction project. How is it that all this has happened?

While I was shut up in my bedroom, my life seemed to grind to a halt. With the curtains shut, I saw none of the outside world; seeing precious few, speaking to even less.

How can it all go on like this, without my baby? The child I wanted to treasure forever should be out there with the others, not somewhere unknown to all of us still here. But she is not. Why?

Somehow, I expected that when I turned and hid, stopping time in my own life, that it would in turn stop for the rest. But the laundry is still hung out to dry, and life goes on.