Flags, lawn chairs, and people lined the streets. We heard the drums in the distance, signaling the start of the parade.

"Is the king about to come?" my 8-year-old son asked.

I giggled inwardly, but looked at him with adoring eyes.

"In Morocco, yes. But this is different. We're in America getting ready to celebrate their Independence Day. America has a president, and he won't come to this parade."

Ah, the life of a child growing up in more than one culture!

It’s like a switch deep inside me. I can turn it on, but it’s more common for me to turn it off.  

Two whole years had passed by since we had last seen my dad. I had just arrived in Florida, along with my two young children, when my dad called to say that he was driving through the area. I was thrilled. He then went on to mention that he could only stop by long enough to have lunch. Only lunch? Only an hour or two of the day? I felt the loss and sadness begin to well up, so I threw my switch to the “off” position.