“Chasing the Echoes of Home: A Journey Through Memory and Migration”
After supper, we got ready to go shopping. Her mother agreed to watch us from the living room window while we crossed over to Groovy’s.
The apartment door clicked shut behind us. Ginnie headed to the elevator — an ancient looking thing with a cage door—but I convinced her to take the stairs. They were quicker, and I hated cramped, claustrophobic spaces.
We had our feet on the first steps when all the lights went out. I should have been used to it; blackouts were common in Beirut, especially at night. But fear of the dark seized my mind, taking me captive like it had every night since childhood. I stumbled backwards and banged my shoulder against the door, making Ginnie laugh as if I’d done it on purpose.
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