Life has a funny way of triggering memories. Sometimes it’s a familiar smell, a bite of a biscuit, a fleeting melody, or the way the sunlight hits a corner of the room just right. Other times, it’s a visit to the planetarium on a touristy trip to Washington, D.C., with your spouse.

For my husband and me, this past month trip (November 2024) was our first time exploring D.C. together. We checked off all the must-see landmarks: Capitol Hill, the Supreme Court, memorials, museums—you name it. But for me, the highlight was the National Air and Space Museum. There, we marveled at the history of aviation, from the Wright brothers’ first flight to the dizzying innovations of space exploration. It was awe-inspiring, to say the least.

When we stepped into the planetarium and navigated the stories of the Apollo missions, something unexpected happened. A memory surfaced, vivid and bittersweet, transporting me thousands of miles and decades back to my childhood home in Rwanda.

My dad started building it before he married my mom, and as our family grew to eight, so did the house. By the time I was old enough to recall it clearly, it had expanded to eight rooms (not counting the living and dining rooms). Now, before you imagine a modern open-concept design, with long hallways connecting everything, that’s not what we are talking about here. Oh no, that wasn’t the 70s or 80s style—at least not in our home. To reach the kids’ bedrooms, you had to navigate a labyrinth of interconnected rooms. It was like playing an eternal game of hide-and-seek.

And here’s where the Apollo missions come in. Two of the bedrooms at the far ends of the maze were affectionately dubbed Appollo Onze and Appollo Douze—French for Apollo 11 and Apollo 12. Why? I have no idea. My parents, who had only elementary school educations, somehow knew about these historic space missions and decided to immortalize them in our home. Maybe they were inspired by the grandeur of human achievement. Maybe they liked the sound of it. Or maybe it was my dad’s way of dreaming big for his growing family.

From the planetarium in D.C., I texted my siblings to see if they remembered this quirky naming convention. It was an outright no. None of them recalls it. You see, when we lost our parents during the 1994 Genocide against the Tutsi, I was 13—the second child in my family. My two siblings, who were two years older and two years younger than me, were taken too. The memories I shared with them, the validation of our shared childhood, are forever out of reach. The three surviving siblings were all younger than ten.

Sometimes I feel like my memories are broken, scattered fragments that no one else can piece together with me. It’s a lonely feeling, like shouting into the void and hearing only your own echo. So many memories are tied to my three younger siblings—shared moments that bind us together. Yet, there’s an equally large collection I hold alone, without validation, because they were too young to remember. Like the way our mom would lovingly write songs to help with our school music homework or the wise, often humorous sayings of our parents that shaped my understanding of the world. These memories feel both precious and fragile, like whispers of the past that only I can hear, and sometimes, that solitude weighs heavy on my heart.

But even in that sadness, I find wonder. How did my parents, with their limited formal education, know about the Apollo missions? And why those particular ones—Apollo 11 and 12? Did they choose them deliberately? Or was it as random as the triggers that bring these memories rushing back to me?

I may never know the answers to the questions about my childhood home, or many other questions I wish I could ask my loved ones no longer with us! But that’s okay. What I do know is this: I carry these memories like precious cargo, a connection to the parents and siblings I lost too soon. They are my history, my anchor, and my orbit.

And as I stood there in D.C., under the twinkling lights of the planetarium, I smiled. Because even though the memories are mine alone to carry, they are a testament to the love, curiosity, and resilience of a family that once was.

Sometimes, it’s enough just to remember!