by Grace Li Every year the ladybug migrationwould pass through my father’s housewhere hundreds would trapthemselves in the cozyof our sunstreamed attic,tucked away with thewinter coats and pressed intopages of report cards.Every year my father would takethe phonebookfrom the kitchen cabinetwhere he kept all the billsand call a white manwho, every year, would leave ourContinue reading “Rehabitation”