I have a family in the desert that is not my family. But somehow, we know each other. Somehow we are the same. When I met them, I recognized them instantly, and I think they felt the same. Jacque told me when I first arrived, they said, “Oh finally, you’re here!” They had been waiting for me. And not because they wanted me to marry a son or to bring them financial benefit, but a recognition, a there she is. I’ve never felt something like that in my life. But I felt like: wow I found them. I didn’t know I had been looking. It feels like a sacred, holy thing, this connection. And so, I tell people I have a connection to a family in Morocco, but that’s all I say because what do you say? I met a whole family, none of whom speak English and they welcome me every time like a long-lost beloved relative, ask me to say, fill me full of food and laughter, tell me not to leave, why would I go back to my country when I could be with them? We sleep on the roof when it’s too hot, all in a row like sardines in a tin on rugs under the stars. They take turns feeling my bare feet in winter to make sure I don’t need to put socks on. Tease me. Push the best food my direction and notice what are my favorite things and make them again and again. Tell me when we’re out and people stare not to worry because soon everyone will be accustomed to me being with them. Take me to the hamam and always fill me with as much tea as I can take. I cry every time I leave them.
In a way, I only want to say they exist and nothing more. They have been a gift to me in so many ways through some of the hardest years I’ve ever had. It is a connection that feels magical and somehow to put too much thought or description makes me scared it will disappear like a mirage if I try to pin them down onto paper. My heart is theirs. It doesn’t make sense in any normal way and I’ve found that is exactly the kind of thing others like to smash and break. Analyze into dust. So I’ve kept it folded close, this connection to these dear people who have given me a home.
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