Twenty-four stories about the families that shaped and wounded us, the homelands we carry without having chosen them, the languages we lost, the memories that persist, and the evaporated milk we drank diluted before leaving for school.
From the villages of childhood summers to Chicago and the airports of exile, from Easter tables to café steps, buses and city shop windows, these stories illuminate people trying to fit somewhere: into an era, a city, a role, an age, a body.
With humor, tenderness and unsparing precision, this collection speaks of memory not as a refuge, but as a restless, demanding force. Of all that lies hidden under tables, behind family blessings, in the smells of homes, in parents’ silences and in the songs we once listened to at full volume.
