Image Credit: Gabrielle Shore
By Gabrielle Shore. Creative Writing.
I’m sitting alongside a friend in a café where the walls are stained
with smoke from a thousand half-remembered arguments.
“You’re Americans? Well what do you think?”
And I laugh because,
honestly, we’re always thinking something—
arguing over it too,
especially now,
with folks back home
holding their breath,
yelling into the wind,
or bickering above a turkey dinner.
What do we think?
Depends who you ask.
Depends on the day.
Sometimes it feels like we think too much,
like we argue just to fill the space.
But here,
surrounded by a language I barely understand,
there’s a kind of quiet.
It gives me time to notice things,
to let gratitude pile up
like the mashed potatoes that weren’t eaten that Thursday.
I’m thankful for the things I didn’t pack—
the skyline back home,
the smell of our local bagel place,
the hum of cicadas in the California heat.
Thankful for what I found here—
the way Reims smells like damp stone and fresh bread,
the silent bus rides where we keep to ourselves,
the woman who smiles at me anyway,
my dad’s tired jokes on FaceTime.
Thankful for the small things too:
the way pigeons waddle like they own the streets,
the soft scrape of a coffee cup on a saucer,
the rhythm of footsteps on old cobblestone.
And thankful,
for the other Americans here—
walking reminders of home.
We all carry it differently:
some wear it proudly,
others with quiet hesitation.
Sometimes I see myself in them,
sometimes I don’t.
And boy,
I’m thankful.
for them,
for this,
for the ache that reminds me
I’m here,
pretending to understand
what the waiter just said.
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