I was eight when I first found out about World War II.
Dad never says much. No one is listening but me.
He whispers to himself: human beings are terrifying.
That's enough to understand.
What is happening in the movie we are watching is real.
As real as me and my dad, and our safe white house with ugly floors, cold in my feet.
I am too young to notice the instant urge to eat all I can find in the kitchen.
The touch of a slide of bread crashes into their skinny bodies walking in my head.
I don't know what to do with so much weight. So I eat. To feed them, to feed my guilt.
When I can't eat more, I vomit, as if I could start over to feed them trough myself.
That day opened a hole I haven't been able to stop digging into.
I haven't found an end because it has too many. This project is just one of them.