So fast.

Sometimes life comes at you, all at once, so fast.  Earlier this week, my sister called me in the  middle of the night.  Even on the cusp of consciousness and sleep, I knew something was wrong.  My grandma Martina, who I visited in Mindanao last October, had passed away, just a few days after my parents and sisters flew to the southern provinces to celebrate her 90th birthday.  I did not go.

That entire day, I was floating.  I count only two and a half hours where I was focused and that was during my interviews with the Syrian asylum-seeker brothers.  In their talks of bombs, their memories surrounding the sounds of constant gunfire, of death around each corner, I found concentration.

But the rest of the day was gone.

In the next two weeks, I have to wrap up my cases, go to Mindanao for my grandmother's funeral, go back to Bangkok, pack, and then make a huge move to the US.   This week (and the next few) will be an exercise in compartmentalization.