This world is broken, wounded, shredded & in its crevices, is a healing, a knot, spelled H•O•M•E. Home, to me, feels like a promise of meeting again. The closets of home are never empty, but filled with memories of words & silence, of laughters & tears, of longing & goodbyes, of separation & re-union. There are traces of us, of hands held, of hugs shared, of moments of peace & agony, of the little joys of living surrounded by the glittering faces of family.

The walls, how kind, to cherish our imprints, making sure we’re held not suffocated. And, home is not just about spaces. It’s a space you yearn to weave as you move beyond home. It becomes a speck of your imagination, the solace of your heart. It’s the oldest, most beautiful memory you long to have elsewhere. But, home, as unfiltered it is, stays within you, in one wide space of your heart. Touching it gently, as it longs to be home. And, home brings us back to ourselves. And, not just the spaces, but the skies that seek a room in you, the breeze that tugs at your sleeves, longing to see set yourself free, the hands you never want to let go, the words that bring you peace as you speak them in the silence of the night, the silence that calms your heart.

But, what your home lies in heaps & heaps of debris, shredded beyond repair? What if all the memories that bedecked your face with smile, form an ocean of tears in your eyes? What if the hands you held are lost in the devastation of oppression? What if your home is no longer known to be yours? What if you find cruel strangers occupying your dining table, as you recall the million conversations that brimmed with joy there? What if.

Also, I can’t help but recommend Mornings In Jenin by Susan Abulhawa. I read it last year & it broke my heart but opened me to realities I knew little about. Some things, some words, break your heart. But, you can’t turn a blind eye.

“We were enfolded in each other like the last word of an epic poem we had never imagined would end. A childhood story we had lived together line by line, hand in hand, was ending and we knew it would close the moment we unraveled our arms.”
~ Mornings In Jenin.