Dear Dad,

I fear it will disappoint you to know that my strongest memories of Bangladesh involve the American Club. I do remember the people. I have mental portraits, not scars, of loose skin, bare feet, eyelashes caked with fleas. Those images were my ordinary they were my way to school, they were windows, they were my front porch. The memory that stands out as my first one is one of the American Club we were part of. An unnaturally green oasis surrounded by walls shielding us from a dust world. I remember the shimmery blue pool that I would swim laps in, the chalky white diving board that taught me back flips, and the gnarly driftwood picnic tables where I would savor the reliability of the snack I would order whenever we were there. I know you remember the Shirley Temples because still it comes up sometimes. I haven't had one in years. I still I hate maraschino cherries. They used to settle still plump at among the ice at the bottom of my glass when I was finished. I would also get cloud candy. You and mom would never have had anything like this at home it was sticky and soft. I know now it was just cotton candy in disguise but it used to be a real cloud. You think I would have known better having flown through clouds, having watched them wisp away as the airplane cut through. I would daydream about the packaging about sitting on a cloud. Being somewhere downy and warm and bright with never ending spun sugar.

Love,

Elizabeth