“Chasing the Echoes of Home: A Journey Through Memory and Migration”
He sized me up with his yellow, coyote eyes. Beneath them, his cheeks and nose were thread veined. “Hope you enjoyed yourself,” he said to me in French. “You gave your parents quite a scare.”
“They weren’t evacuated.” Maman settled onto the couch and picked up her knitting project. “So foolish, but just as well, or we might never have found her.”
“Your father told me you were right across the street when the car bomb exploded on Hamra. Close call. Were your friend’s parents there?” His yellow eyes matched the colour of my mother’s yarn.
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