My favorite part of the week was when my mom and I would drive to our neighborhood grocery store. It was past the sliding glass doors where I would give her the rundown of my day. It was in the produce aisles where we would debate ways the world could end: I think robots, her, global warming. It was next to the dairy freezer where big, philosophical ideas would float above our heads like thought bubbles and pop above egg...

For me, community is tupperware containers of food left on the doorstep. I unwrap the cloth that ties the gift together, scoop helpings of rice and curry onto a plate, open the microwave with a jerky tug. I’m ten, and my mother is sick in bed. Grandma’s on a plane, but until then it’ll be a week of waking up early to zip up lunch bags for my two little brothers. I learn the word responsibility before...

As the child of former writers and painters, art was an old friend my parents sometimes invited for dinner. When the lights dimmed and the wine glasses emptied, I caught glimpses of their art through college portfolios and newspaper clippings they pulled out of a box. Back then, art had been sepia-toned, something sentimental and romantic that got left behind when my parents decided to marry and raise three children in America. I saw how they would get homesick for...

I was barely old enough to peek my eyes over the oak informational desk and scribble my name in swirling kindergarten script when I got my first library card. That little piece of 4 by 6 plastic was my launching pad to the diversity of the world. As I grew older, I unlocked new sections of the library like I was an explorer, expanding my horizons and my crew of characters along the way. From the children's section to YA to adult,...