The Map of Our Roots
We are all born from a geography we did not choose, yet we spend our lives tracing the lines of our inheritance. There is a particular language written in the skin of those who have held us—a cartography of labor, of seasons endured, and…
Freshly Made Fruit Cake, by Rabih MadiThe Weight of Sunday
I spent this morning trying to bake a loaf of bread, but I got distracted by the way the flour dusted the kitchen counter. It looked like a light snowfall in the middle of spring. I ended up just standing there, watching the dust motes dance…
Golden Road by Ali BerradaThe Path We Walk Alone
When I was seven, my grandfather took me to the village square long after the market stalls had been dismantled. The ground was swept clean, save for a few stray husks and the long, stretching shadows cast by the stone pillars. I remember feeling…