It’s getting harder to remember what the world used to be like.

I still remember the little things.

Being with friends; no memory in particular, but the feeling of being with others— of comfort and ease in their company.

The mornings, the stillness, the world beginning to stir.

The little things.

Now it’s been eight years, six months, and eleven days since I’ve seen the sunrise.

When the threat of war spread, most people brushed it off. It was dismissed as the same global hostilities that had been festering since long before I was born.

It took stumbling blindly into our own destruction for us to open our eyes.

And at that point it made no difference.

I do remember the night we left, of all things. Like a foggy, distant scene.

I had been asleep in my bed when I awoke to my father frantically shaking me, shouting at me to pack a bag and to meet him downstairs with my sisters.

I remember feeling as if the house would fall as he thundered down the hallway to wake my siblings.

On the way out, I took whatever I could fit in my arms. I knew we would never be going back. I threw my things into the truck and we sped off into the night.

In that hazy picture I can see myself. I see my father and my sisters. Driving away from the home where we’d made all our memories, the place where we’d shared our lives.

But even in all that darkness, I’ll always remember, hours later as I took in my last glimpse of the world, the sky began to turn.

And I saw the sunrise.