When I was a kid I loved mangoes. I still do. On trips to the grocery store at the right time of year, my mum would bring home a flat of mangoes just for me. My dad would feel through the box for the ripest one and slice off the flesh of one side, skimming the fibrous pit with a sharp blade.

the limb was lying there when I passed

how long had it been spread across the sidewalk like an open arm?

I kiss my daughter

a thousand times a day

and she doesn’t bat an eye

It goes something like this…

Andrew puts on her pyjamas and reads her a story. (As much as a seven-month-old can be read to. She flips the board book over in her hands, and nibbles the thick corner of a page.) I start cleaning up from dinner and relish a few moments of solitude until I hear…

The thing that I cannot get over, and probably will not (until death do us part), is that this isn’t how love works. Love is not so much a characteristic of our relationship as it is the landscape where we find ourselves. You are here.

One thing I’ve learned through writing a book is that you end up with words out there in the world, attributed to your name, that you actually have to…well…live by.

Recently, my inner life has been anything but peaceful. No wonder it’s challenging to have eyes for peace in my outer world.

On Wednesday I waited at a nondescript intersection in Richmond for five and a half hours.

Four years ago I stepped off a plane, arriving at YVR after a year of living abroad. There at the airport to greet me was Loren Balisky, co-founder of Kinbrace, a community in East Vancouver where refugee claimants and their hosts live side-by-side. I lowered my unwieldy backpack into the trunk of his car, and we drove across the city to Kinbrace, my new home.

This morning I found a perch at a coffee shop to continue editing my book… half tinkering with sentences, half staring off into space. As I typed away, something caught my eye and I looked outside. There stood Abir and Salma, faces masked and waving enthusiastically…

At Kinbrace, our lives revolve around arrivals. Next week alone, three new families will enter our doors, receiving temporary housing and wrap-around support during their first few months in Canada. It’s almost unheard of to say three welcomes at once, but, then again, it seems rather fitting given the season...

Esther arrived with autumn. She had been travelling on a business trip in the United States when she was faced with an impossible decision: return to her Central American country of origin—and certain persecution—or seek safety by crossing the border into Canada—and endure an indefinite separation from her husband and two children…

During the holy season of Ramadan in Tanzania, observant Muslims break their fast with a hot drink called porridge. (And yes, it’s a drink and not a breakfast cereal.) Typically consumed at dusk, this steaming beverage combines the spiciness of black pepper, the tanginess of tamarind, and the sweetness of cane sugar. These flavours join in a roux-like base of flour and water, giving porridge a thick and creamy consistency...and, perhaps, its name.

As I approached the train tracks that cut diagonally across East Van, I turned down the street with a pedestrian overpass—a conspicuous turquoise chain-link structure. I walked up the ramp, then paused in the middle, standing directly above the tracks. I looked at the garbage below, cut through by a path for a train. I looked up—the North Shore mountains. I kept walking. Just before I popped out the other side, I recognized the person approaching; it was her eyes—between head scarf and mask.

I came into the backyard to find the stranger and his wife with brooms in hand. They were sweeping every corner of the back patio, which is daily carpeted in the leaves of a locust tree, succumbing to fall. I asked about their grandchildren, and they set their work aside to show me photos on a phone. The stranger’s wife pointed to each round face and told me name and age. “They’re beautiful,” I said, followed by “Mashallah!” She smiled a swell of pride and returned to the sweeping.

On Monday night we celebrated thanksgiving—all twenty of us. In ‘normal’ times, thanksgiving is the event of the year in the Kinbrace calendar. It’s a time of welcoming back past residents and sharing feast-worthy food from a dozen different countries. We decorate the Grandview Church hall with string lights and autumnal-toned fabric draped from the ceiling. There’s live music. And it almost always ends in dancing. Kurdish dancing. Or line dancing. Or salsa. It’s a beautiful sight.

About a year ago I ran into Ahmad as I was on my way out of the house and we had an encounter that left its mark on me. He had just received a concerning assessment at the hospital and I was the first person he crossed paths with in the aftermath.

Is it possible to love a stranger? That was a question I asked myself last week. I missed the opportunity to welcome our newest Kinbrace residents while I was sitting on the fourth floor—the surgical unit—of Mount Saint Joseph Hospital. The one I love was sleeping off the loss of his appendix while I sat in a blue vinyl chair and watched the steady drip of the IV.

Last week Zahra and I walked to Trout Lake. It was one of the last warm days of summer and we were both wearing shorts and ball caps. She pushed a stroller up the bumpy alley and along the sidewalk and around to the far side of the lake. As we walked and her baby was lulled to sleep by the gentle jostling, Zahra told me a story.

The sun had set and I plugged in the string lights that zig-zag up the exterior staircase and along the pergoda. The twenty of us sat side-by-side, our chairs now pushed back from the long table, belying satisfied stomachs. On the menu was Egyptian kusherie: aromatic lentils and rice topped with tomato sauce, sweet caramelized onions, and tart plain yogurt. The flavours lingered well after the meal was finished, and so did we. I held a baby on my lap and whispered in French to the North African woman sitting next to me.