When I think of my name, I think of how easily it rolls off my lips and onto my tongue. I purse my mouth and let it sit there as it boils beneath the skin: Mariam. If you say it right, it’s magic. The Arabic of it all feels like home, like I never left Syria, like my grandma is still alive, rolling grape leaves as my other grandma kneads dough. My name smells like their kitchens, tastes like their kisses on my cheek.