I want to thank:
Papi, for the handkerchief,
Mamy, for the lapis earrings,
Naji, for the gelato and Sintenis’s Daphne.
Scott, for green orange and mint, the book of haiku, Camus’s notebooks, the croissant, and much more.
Leslie, for telling me to write a love story,
Amy, for believing I could, the first, second, tenth time around.
Daniella, for seeing a writer in me and a book in this manuscript,
and Kate, Jade, and every person at Atria who made it real.
Martina, for the daffodils,
Jessica, for the tea,
Andrej, for the New Yorker login (which I am still using).
Caroline, Joseph, Sara, Hassan, for the tabbouleh and fruits,
Paula, for holding my hand on the eighteenth of March,
and every nurse and doctor and worker on Ellison Thirteen.
Maggie, for the frozen meals,
Katia, for hearing heartbeats.
Merya, Marwan, for crossing the Atlantic,
Merya, for doing it twice.
Najla, for the light, across the street, in your room,
Line, for the Damascus rooftops,
Mohammad, the orchard in Douma.
Joelle, for saving the orchid,
Hiam, for saving the books, the white couch, my posters of Paris.
Claudia, Maya, Amanda, Colette, Emile, Salim, Ghassan, Joe,
Samia, Rose, Paul, Corky, Anne, Henri, Jade, Albert.
And the Liberty Hotel.