My life has become tracing paper. Onion-skin thin, milky-white sheets inked one over the other in crisp, sharp black lines. If I dropped it into a puddle, everything would be washed into blurred lines and undefined scenes and perhaps I�d forget what it feels like to have memories. I remember everything so vividly that sometimes I�m startled to find myself sitting in front of my computer instead of driving in a car, walking abreast with a friend, or lying in bed with a lover. It�s been twelve years today since my sister died, and the black lines of that day have risen to the surface contaminating the other scenes with their aggressiveness. My body has marked this day for weeks with severe headaches and insomnia, but my mind woke today defenseless. It is enough to remember the burning house. It is enough to remember being the only one not cornered by flames or smoke. It is enough to remember sleeping through that first night on a relative�s floor and waking knowing that it wasn�t a dream. It is enough, but then there is that crashing realization that I don�t remember everything, and that is what takes my breath. The lines on my tracing paper are mute. I have lost her voice to the clamoring of time.