she insisted i buy me a buddha mooncake. it was a food i tried to like but never could. i would end up bringing the mooncake all the way back to college with me before throwing it away. i tried to ask a of questions about vietnam, my birth, my sister's birth, but my mother didn't say anything that. counted as an answer. that was so long ago. what's her stance? and is still how was she supposed to remember things. now, nearly 30 years after that first meeting, i see her point. i know what happened that day. i wrote it down, but my mind has insisted on another version and edited efficiency for those revolving hotel doors. it feels like the actual which scares me. like my mother, i am less and less of what is real, what is remembered what is necessary to believe. thank you. so have. and we start there with that last line. what is it like to feel less sure of what to believe and what is real? okay. okay. well, the tricky thing about writing particular nonfiction and just about existing in the world is that we keep changing as people and, therefore, the past changing and we i