I don’t know what it’s like to live in a place where I have roots. Where old women see you on the street and remark that you have your grandmother’s eyes. Where the Pakistani grocer around the corner asks how your father’s doing when you stop by to pick up a box of gulab jamun. I never had quick family visits with grandparents, aunts, uncles, and cousins to heal wounds and provide relief from the constant exercise of having to introduce myself. No ancestors who’ve left footprints for me to follow or passed down stories to serve as a roadmap. I’m new here.
