Noor Amari, today, marks her citizenship oath.

“Habibti — you held your right hand up in that courthouse on Wednesday morning and I watched you say the words and I have not stopped crying about it, quietly, in inconvenient places, for six days. I knew the day we got married that I had married a serious person. I did not fully understand, until this week, the weight of what you had been carrying without ever once asking me to share it. I share it now. I share everything. The house is the long table. Pull up a chair.”

“Noor — in fourteen years of immigration law I have never had a client send me a thank-you card after every appointment. You sent twenty-three. I have kept them all in the green folder in my desk. On the very hard days I read one. Congratulations, citizen. The next round of pro-bono clinic is on the twenty-eighth, and I would very much like to introduce you, if you are willing, to the woman whose case I am taking next. She is at the place you were in 2021. She could use a letter from you.”

“Noor — I studied for that civics test with you for nine months. I now know more about the Federalist Papers than is reasonable for a person born in Mumbai with a green card and absolutely no intention of taking the test myself. I would do it again. I would do it every Tuesday and Thursday for the rest of my life, with the takeaway from the Thai place, on your kitchen floor, with your dog. Congratulations, citizen. I am bringing the cake from the place on Michigan. Don't argue with me.”

“Noor — thirty-one years I have run the bookshop on Warren Avenue, and not once have I had an employee come in early to dust the poetry shelf without being asked. You did, every Saturday, for the four years you worked the floor before law school. I am closed on Saturday so I can come to the lunch. The shop will survive one Saturday. Mabrouk, my girl. The Mahmoud Darwish on the front table is for you. Don't pay me. Don't argue.”

“Noor — twenty-two years on Schaefer Road, and we have shovelled each other's drives in three blizzards, lost two dogs, raised seven children between us, and never once not had a coffee at the kitchen table on a Sunday. We are honoured, and a little bit teary, and we have brought, against your express instructions, a card and a small thing in green paper. Welcome, citizen and neighbour. Maureen made the soda bread. Don't let the kids near it before lunch.”

“Noor — we sat next to each other at the ceremony on Wednesday. Yours was the hand I held when the judge spoke. I had no one with me; you had the whole row. You leaned over and whispered, "you have me, sister, that is enough for today." I am writing this from Minneapolis, and I am crying again. I am, also, applying for the pro-bono clinic Reema mentioned. You said one sentence to a stranger and changed her week. Imagine the rest of the years. Mabrouk, sister. The first of many.”

“Auntie Noor!! We made the bunting and the letters are GREEN and GOLD and Yara wrote the F backwards but we are leaving it!! Mama said you are a citizen now which she said means the country has to be nice to you. We already knew you were nice to us. Mama is making the rice with the carrots. Yara wants to know if there is cake. There is. Layla told us. Don't tell Layla we told you. We love you Auntie Noor!!”

“Noor — I am twenty-two and I do not remember Damascus. I remember the kitchen in Dearborn, and Mama crying at the kitchen table the day your first interview was denied, and you putting your hand on her shoulder and saying, in English, "it's okay, mama, we go again." I did not understand the sentence at the time. I understand it now. You are the reason I am brave about my own paperwork. You are the reason I am brave about most things. Mabrouk, ya ukhti. The bunting has glitter. I am sorry in advance about the glitter.”

“Noor — habibti, your grandmother writes to you from Amman, where it is already evening, and the news is on the radio, and your cousins have all gathered to watch the video Mama sent of the courthouse. I am eighty-three years old. I have not been on an airplane in twelve years. I will not see Dearborn again. But I have seen, today, my granddaughter raise her right hand in a country I will never visit, and say words I never had to say, and become a citizen of a place that, on this one day, I am grateful to. May the country be kind to you, ya habibti. Make sure it knows it has you.”