The first time my mother told me about Chigaro, it would be the day before my sixth birthday, and I was excited about the decoration she had been stringing up around the house and the smell of a cake baking in the oven.

That warm anticipation turned icy cold when I saw her standing at the door to my room,

a solemn look on her face. She told me to come and take a hand, and when I did so, she began

to walk us through the house, room by room. I wanted to ask what we were doing, but something about a stern expression and the tight

grip of my hand seemed to forbid it.

So instead we walked into a room, paused for a moment in silence, and then moved onto the next without any comment.

When we had entered every room, my mother brought me back to my bedroom and shut the door behind us.

Only then did she crouch down next to me and speak,

her voice a tightly bound whisper in my ear.

Did you see anything that didn't belong?

I had pulled back slightly from my mother to look at her.

Is this a game? Was I in trouble? I was very little, but I already knew how to pick

up my toys and keep things out of the floor. Had I forgotten something?

Meeting her eyes, but still, I've read to speak, I shook my head slightly, her eyes

forward and she squeezed my hand harder, not enough to hurt, but almost.

Stop and think.

Did you see anything that didn't belong or look out a place, something you didn't remember seeing

before? a place, something you didn't remember seeing before.

I didn't dare pull my hand away, and I could tell by the intensity of her gaze that

this was important.

And so I thought again, trying to go through each room in my head.

The hallway, no, the bathroom, no, mama's bedroom, her office.

...