There is something liberating about taping together a broken plastic globe. The same globe which you have grown up spinning and memorizing as a child.

My grandfather brought it from Germany. The cartographer has inked in his name at the bottom. I find it difficult to pronounce it.

Toppling over caused the globe to be freed from the steel clasps and wooden stand that held it in place. It rolled across the room noiselessly. Amongst other things, it too became a casualty.

My little sister was the first to tape it together but it ended up with northern Africa having South America as its base. So I took it and gently removed the tape. The globe was repositioned, with the continents and cities repositioned the way they are, and then taped back together.

With time, that is what you learn to do. Owning the broken and messed up as yours. Fixing it. Holding it close to your chest. Knowing that it is yours- cracked, broken, but never beyond repair.

That is why I went to the rally. That is why I filled out my brother’s Lyceum form. That is why I know I won’t forget how to smile.


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