(with respect to Tim O’Brien) My mother carried letters from a man named Arton. I had no idea who he was. She would read those letters while waiting for the chicken soup water to boil, the washing machine to finish spinning and for dad to come home. After reading them, she’d hide them in her bra. Among other things she’d keep in her bra were a few euro bills and a handkerchief.  Once she forgot the letters on the kitchen table, and when I touched them they were so warm and wet. Every Friday night before dad came home, she’d go to her bedroom, lift the mattress, and tuck the letters away as far as she could reach. I took a peek at one of the letters once and read “te dua.” It was Albanian for “I love you.” I was shocked. I was almost sure that my mother loved my dad. I often doubted my dad, but never her. She was my mom and she wasn’t supposed to be loved by anyone else but us. Some nights I would stay up late reading Brothers Grimm, looking at the moonlit hills outside my window, and wondering whether my mother loved my dad. The things that my family members carried were often determined by necessity. Among the necessities were a six pack of eggs, two loafs of bread, two cartons of milk, a bag of rice, one packet of beans, a small bottle of sunflower oil, a pack of cigarettes, gum and matches. These items were usually carried by my dad on his way back home. He would always be the one to go grocery shopping, day after day. Together these items weighed between 3 and 4 kilograms.  He’d never buy too much food at once. He often said that the war might erupt again, so why waste money on food that we’d have to abandon? His logic was flawed, I knew. But he was my dad and sometimes, when he was in a good mood or had a good day at the market, he would buy me my favorite snacks. He also carried a handful coins in his coat pocket together with a tiny vial of tiny nitroglycerin pills and a bunch of keys.  I always wondered what some of those keys opened. Whenever my mother would get mad at him or ask him questions like “Where were you last night?” he’d put his hands in his pockets and jingle the keys and coins altogether. Once I heard that noise, I’d run up to my brother’s room to distract myself from the fight I knew was about to erupt. My brother’s music always drowned out the noise from the living room. The things that my family carried varied by mission. When my mother had to go pick up her unemployment check from the city, she’d always carry her only red lipstick, a perfume from a brand that’d already gone bankrupt, cough drops, a small notebook, a blue pen, and a longing to make all the men in the agency turn their heads. Whenever my brother would go out with his friends, he’d carry his Discman, at least five grunge CDs in his backpack, a folding knife, a hip flask that was always empty and a longing to forget the troubles at home. The Discman was his most prized possession. He got it as a gift before the war. He also carried a wallet with no money in it. A man should always carry a wallet, my dad said, and so my brother listened. Instead of money he put condoms and photographs of his ex-girlfriend in there. He’d often talk to me about her. Donika used to live right across the street from us. She moved to Germany a few years ago and we never saw her again. He’d often talk about her hair. He was obsessed with her hair. It was blonde and long and shiny. The kind of hair I wished I had. They would always hang out at the library and read each other poems. But now the library is in ruins, and she’s probably reading poems to another guy. When dad made it his mission to leave us for good, he carried a huge suitcase. He packed all his clothes, took a t-shirt from my wardrobe, a tin soldier from my brother’s desk and nothing from my mother. I saw him come into my room just before dawn and heard him tiptoeing around the house. I pretended I was asleep. It was easier that way. My mother cried all morning. She didn’t mention if she wanted him to come back, she only said that we would probably starve since he hadn’t left us any money or the usual bag of groceries. Later, in the afternoon, she asked me to take the bus to the local cemetery with her. It was a warm day, but once we entered the cemetery, I shivered. We stumbled around for quite some time. There were so many fresh graves. People die a lot these days, I thought. Finally, my mother stopped in front of a headstone. I read the name ARTON SEFA etched into the granite. I didn’t say anything. My mother told me he was the love of her life, the guy she was supposed to leave my dad for. She started crying. She crouched and touched the damp soil. I felt sorry for my mother but I also felt relieved. Having your mother love a dead man who isn’t your father isn’t as bad as her loving someone who’s alive. That day we came home with fewer things than we went out with. My mother had taken the letters with her and burned them all right in front of Arton’s grave. As if she needed to tell him it was over. Later, I learned those letters were the reason my father had left.  I didn’t blame him. Most days, my family members carried themselves with pride. Sometimes, though, there were moments of crisis when they would scream or want to scream but couldn’t, when they cried and couldn’t sleep and wanted to leave the country and said FUCK THIS and wandered around the house and begged for the pain to stop. Anything could cause this. The chopping noise of low-flying helicopter, the sight of freight trains crossing the city, the smell of burning tires. After their breakdowns, they would compose themselves and go on with their usual business. My mother would start cleaning. My dad, when he was still there, would go outside to light a cigarette. My brother would just disappear, ashamed of feeling the way he did. The next day, they would all apologize to me and blame it on the war. I was sick of hearing about the war. It was as if they had nothing else to talk about, no other stories to tell. I had heard those stories over and over again so many times to the point where I saw them in my dreams. Sometimes, I’d see my mother hold a two-year-old me in her arms and feed me bread soaked in Turkish tea. On my worst nights, I dreamt my parents forgot me at home while trying to catch a train leaving the country. My father was right — the war never ended. They all carried it in their hearts and worn-down bodies. Some days, I’d help them carry it despite knowing nothing about it. After all, they were my family and they needed every bit of help they could get.