What I want to know is how you expect to make it in this country if you’re wandering around with a knot the size of yesterday in your stomach.

We see it all differently. He needs a routine and starkness to make it, and I need clutter and memories. How could I have lived here for three years and not been bothered by this? Maybe because it was never mine before.

Curled up under a cool sheet, hugging my memories and drifting, I imagine everything, from going through customs to smelling the dusty afternoons; from eating fresh garbanzo beans to playing with Ma; from hiding from Latifa and then, zoom, to Sharif, where I linger, linger, linger. Like yesterday and like tomorrow and then by accident my eyes pop open and what slaps me in the face?

Empty walls.

Slam them shut again with picnics and visits, with trips to the souq, with trips to the country, with hours of cooking and smells so rich they make you queasy, especially if it’s Ramadan and you haven’t eaten all day but still have to cook a feast for after sundown.

I dive headfirst into this box of photos and stay inside until they paper the insides of my eyes. Soon it won’t matter what our walls are like because every time I look up I see Ma smiling at me, or Sitti peeling carrots, or Latifa spilling the tea on a prospective husband.

Remember for yourself and for your tomorrow, my mother used to say. Remember to make your day new and old, but be sure to think of something you never thought of before. If you don’t, your life will be like having your foot stuck in a mouse hole, looks small and harmless, but holds on tight and won’t let you go until something comes along to change the landscape.

Eyes squeeze close until they hurt, longing for the slopes of the land around my father’s house, longing for my mother’s sweet voice to fill my ears with the stories of her village: her poor mother, stuck with all those kids; Haydar, now crazy, who—now you have to promise not to tell a soul—saw the men who did it and probably was the one who killed them; the hopelessly dumb and forever multiplying Sulayman family—one of whom is now part of our family; and, best of all, wise old Abu Salwan, who carries his Bedouin wisdom in his eyes and has gold hidden away in the desert.