Fact: there’s no way you can see the world through someone else’s eyes. Even when, in imagination, you walk a mile in someone else’s shoes, in reality, you’re still walking in your own. This appears so self-evident, what’s the point in mentioning it?

I think of family far away this morning, obviously. Over here, we’re about to open the presents after  a long talk with the father. Now that his French has improved, he’s the one with whom I can best communicate about the real issues facing them. Deportation? Not deportation? The lottery ticket hasn’t been torn open yet. The odds aren’t in their favor.

I think of family. I think of families in the plural. Together, separated, together but skimming atop the great unsaids. Or not. Choosing.

Last night, we decorated a lamp and piled the presents under it. This morning, the father prepared what they also call Turkish coffee in Albania. We talked while the wife watched her favorite fare: youtube offerings of “sexy” looking girls singing in Albanian. In the best of circumstances, she and I don’t see much eye-to-eye.

While preparing the meal, I think of Turkey (not the volatile, the country).I think of Necmiye Alpay, Asli Erdogan, and all the other jailed ones. I check out the petition demanding Asli’s release. Still some five thousand signatures to go before hitting the fifty thousand mark. I think of the writers leaving tomorrow to demonstrate for her release.

I think. I write notes for the next novel. I look at the world out of my eyes since I have no other. I see much to grieve, and much to love.