I keep the chain-link fence through which a nameless auntie sold chip sandwiches to kids on our short school recesses. I keep the memory of my mother and her dark, curly hair, waiting for me at the end of the day, our car pulled into a wheel-rutted park, with its dry brown grass. I keep my mother, as wondrous as a summer fair when you are small, where you get lost for a while, where the Ferris wheel looms large in the sky. I keep the memory of mosques, up the street, down the street, all around our house in Extension 5. I keep the warm golden bricks of the Jaamia Masjid on Guinea Fowl Street, with its Khan-esque aspirations and its red carpets. I keep the Nur-Ul-Islam Masjid, with its golden dome and slender minaret, its covered courtyard and beige carpets. I keep it, and its students, and their soft-cover Qurans, each embroidered and decorated by the soft hands of their grandmothers.