Madame Auntie shook her head. “I just thought you should know.”

Imogen took a deep breath. Swallowed. Took another deep breath. Tried to find her steadiest voice. “Thank you.”

And that should have been the end of it. But instead, Madame Auntie asked, “Your mother gave you poetry, yes? Where are your people from?”

Imogen knew the question well. It happened frequently enough. A part of her honestly couldn’t believe it had taken Madame Auntie this long to ask her. “My people?”

“Your mother, your father.” Madame Auntie tilted her head back and forth.

Imogen usually minded when she was asked that question. But it was different from someone who was similar to her. It was one thing when white people asked where she was from. But someone who felt nearly like an auntie, well, she could ask different questions. At least, Imogen thought so.

And so, without meaning to, without knowing why or what the consequences would be, she began to speak. True things, not sarcasm, not funny things. Real things. “My mom’s family survived the occupation and the Six-Day War in ’67. She was born in Chicago. My dad’s family fled the civil war in Lebanon. He was born there, but he came here as a child. Before they were separating families. They’ve all been here for a while. But they remember things, you know? I think the poetry, it’s her way of keeping the old ways. In her own expression, I mean.”

Madame Auntie nodded. “I know. You remember things. And the things you don’t remember, your parents and your family, they teach you to remember. They teach you to know what they carried. To carry it still.”

Imogen stared at Madame Auntie for a moment. She wanted to call her Auntie, not just in her mind. She wanted to ask her. Questions about everything. About nothing. About the scarves and how many of them she had had and about her husband and how many trips he had gone on and why he’d traveled in the first place. About life before the internet and a time when the borders were open. About Chicago when it wasn’t a beautiful city but a corrupt one, a posturing one. Or, a more corrupt one, at least. “Khala?”

Madame Auntie’s mouth pulled into half of a smile. “Yes, habibti?”

“What do you remember?”

“This and that.” Auntie’s face dropped for a moment. Then she reached into her structured leather bag. The one that looked like it cost ten times what Imogen had paid for her scooter. She pulled out a black notebook. “You dropped this. Or your manager. I found it. I wanted to give it back to you.”