Narrow streets filled with 4 story buildings that carry the hearts of many
I can still hear the woman dragging her shopping trolley on the concrete and the deafening sound it made
I can smell the summer fruits at the store and how people would pester the owner if the watermelon is sweet or not, and he would assure them that they are because he wouldn’t lie to them.
I remember my aunt teaching me a trick to know if a melon would be sweet or not by simply smelling it.
She would say, “Araz, if the melon has a pungent smell and you can smell it with one whiff, then it’s sweet,” and to this day, I still use that trick.
I can’t forget the hollow faces that would stare at me as if they were talking to me with their eyes like they knew something I didn’t.
Looking back, I think they carried so much unspoken pain
Then, the tall palm trees on wide roads with look-like houses and polished grass were all I saw when I drove.
Students carrying their sagging backpacks and rushing to the school gates so they’re not late for class.
My dad picking me up down the street from my school because he would always complain there was no parking and it was the only street he could park on.
When he was away for work, he made me write down the streets by order so his absent-minded friend could rely on me if he forgot to take a turn
I always asked the teacher if I could take the breakfast cart back to the cafeteria so I could see him on my way and just nod my head, and perhaps he would say hi. Who knows? These are all memories tied to places I once felt at home
But the truth is I never fully feel at home
It’s a gnawing feeling that I get, and it seems like it won’t ever go away
I feel as if there is a piece of my heart in different places
Different worlds that I felt happiness and found comfort in at one point in my life Every time someone asks me where do you feel at home the most?
My mind shuts down, and so does my heart.
The more I dwell on the question, the more difficult it becomes to find an answer. My heart pulls me to different places, and my brain attempts to ground me in one location It’s a war meant to be lost.
Memories, people, and places make up the idea of home, but when those memories have become blurry, the people have left, and those places don’t exist anymore, then what? These are pieces I carry of a place once called home
Folding each piece like a delicate fabric and tucking it away in a drawer is all I can do now.
