“Chasing the Echoes of Home: A Journey Through Memory and Migration”
While Ginnie’s parents argued about what to do, I navigated around the furniture. My eyes had grown accustomed enough to the darkness that I could see my way to the kitchen. I picked up the rotary phone on the counter. I needed to hear Maman’s voice.
No signal. I hung up and tried again. Still nothing. I tried again and again, twenty times or more, feeling the panic rise in my chest with each failed attempt.
Finally, I went back to stand with Ginnie and her family. A firetruck with a powerful hose had arrived. The road was full of military police, honking cars, barefoot people in pyjamas.
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