My aunt said that my great, great grandfather spoke Arabic and that he was from Turkey, allegedly. It was the year 2019 and I had finally decided to return to Hispaniola after roughly 15 years. This time, however, I was alone and there was a sweetness to this long-awaited decision that I wish I could taste with my mouth. It was also far from bitter because I had arrived, at this particular part in time, to connect the dots and fill in any missing spaces. I only had five days. Over the dinner table that afternoon, Tia Luchy had finally said what I had previously imagined to be true. Perhaps that is why my mom visited Morocco a few years ago — she probably felt a secret and ancient yearning for that part of the world. Morocco, Turkey and the proximity we had to Islam was all too much to comprehend at once. I wanted to meet this Arabic-speaking man in my dreams or in photos, but there were none.