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presence of family. Not in the loud, performative way you might see on postcards, but in a steady, grounded sense of belonging.
In villages we passed through, children never walked alone. Old men leaned against café walls, playing checkers with bottle caps while their grandchildren darted around their knees. Women cooked in groups, always two or three stirring, laughing, scolding.
Not uncommon to sit with strangers, language never an excuse for lack of conversation. Often food was thrust our way, at my expense as my skinny arms and round belly indicated a perceived view of malnutrition. It often brought shared
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