“Chasing the Echoes of Home: A Journey Through Memory and Migration”
“Allo?” When I heard my grandmother speak my name, a wave of homesickness crashed over me. Tears threatened. But Maman was making a zipper with her finger over her lips, so I launched into the useless American history I was learning at school: the names of all the presidents, the Preamble to the Constitution, the American Civil War.
I expected Maman to claim the phone back from me as she usually did, but she was staring at the Persian carpet she’d bought in a Beirut warehouse the week before. Its green paisley flowers clashed with the blue couch in our furnished apartment, but when we’d bought it, she’d said what mattered was that it matched our furniture at home, in Canada. Our real furniture.
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