I
Chapter I
Beginnings
Before France, before America, before language could hold any of it — there was a kitchen, a window, a voice.
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A long-form, slowly-written memoir about leaving home, arriving in France, and the country you carry inside you when the map says you are somewhere else.

Before France, before America, before language could hold any of it — there was a kitchen, a window, a voice.
On the suitcases that don't fit and the goodbyes that linger long after the plane has landed.
The first apartment, the first market, the first time the city felt like it was mine to keep.
What you make of yourself when no one is watching, in a country whose grammar you are still learning.
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