I don’t dream that often. I rarely sleep enough to escape into that world where imagination and reality mingle so freely together. That being said, as I sorted through a small box of items, looking for an old picture that my mother requested, I found a folded piece of plain notebook paper. It was aged, the edges torn, worn away. The paper itself had been crinkled and I had a memory of me balling it up moments after writing down what I’m about to tell you.

I retrieved the paper from its exile somewhere around the trash can and folded it up into neat squares. I took the time to place it in this box - the same box where I keep the priest’s rosary and the ugly wooden and worn crucifix my grandmother gave me - the one she pressed into my palm only weeks before she passed. It was a box of importance, the rare things I kept to preserve their memory in lieu of trusting to my own to care for them.

Things I’ve chosen to…not remember…if such a thing is an option.

I located the photograph and set it on the bed beside me. The paper, I unfolded slowly. The words, written by my 10 year old hand, in crisp letters of graphite, caught my eyes. It was a brief sentence.

Remember the dead cities.

And just like that, I did.