Wednesday, November 14, 2012

Keshvare Aziz

I miss my home.
Not the one I sit in now, but my real home.
The one I have never seen, the one that costs so many a sacrifice.
The sacrifice of altering their values in the eyes of its society,
But in their own eyes, it is worth growing up in their old neighbourhood,
Where their remnants of childhood replay as memories:
Once upon a time they sat on their father's lap as they watched the red-hatted puppet on TV,
They spent their summer days running along the street canals with cousins in a game of tag,
After school they emptied their backpacks to unwrap the sweet candies they bought at the store.

As they grew up, their rebellion placed them in the basements of their friends' homes,
The house music and rap playing in the background.
Flirting and playing love games with one another,
Knowing that this was the only place they could pretend to be somewhere else.
First love blossomed under the cherry tree that blooms white in the spring,
The potential threat of being caught thrilled them, their attraction growing stronger towards each other.

Photographs brought here from my real home,
I am barely in any of them.
"Oh you weren't born yet," they say as they turn to each other,
They begin reminiscing with dreamy smiles on their faces,
My jealousy grows as I hear of their great childhood,
Mine was only mediocre as it lacked a sense of heritage.
The sense of growing up surrounded by family,
Nosy to know what you're up to,
But also the ones who threw picnics on Fridays in the park,
Excessive food, laughter, and happiness,
For a moment, oblivious to the reality surrounding them.

I remember as a child I would scream at my mother with fresh tears on my face,
Demanding to move back to my beloved home,
But deep inside, I always felt the gratitude of avoiding the harshness I could have faced,
The feeling of being trapped in the own familiarity of friends and family,
Not being able to tell who was looking at you and who was watching you.

I am glad I did not grow up with a second personality,
The slyness that develops in order to protect myself and my family,
Here, I never hesitate to put my arm around my best friend,
Or second guess the words out of my mouth,
Here, I am safer than I would be in my real home.

Yet, I miss what I have not laid my eyes upon.
I miss what I've heard about, or seen in stories, pictures and movies.
Proud of its rich history and elegance.
Through all of its obstacles, it stands strong but at the same time remains delicate.
The hole in my heart is growing, the voidance yearning for a fill.
I didn't know I could feel homesick for a place I know nothing about.
My beautiful home that I have never seen,
My beautiful home that has never seen me.

I miss my home.

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