The Door...

To sad another voice gone, first River and now Layla.
I'm sure they embrace Georgies Liberation of Iraq, with so much hatred, and vengeance
Forget the Hail Marys Kev.
I sit here thinking of being driven out oh my home that I have lived in since I was 18 years old, 43 years, all the memories all the dreams of a lifetime, by bombs, militias, driven by lies from the so called President of the USA and I cannot comprehend it in any way.

Layla Anwar, An Arab Woman Blues
Tuesday, December 04, 2007

It was time for me to leave.
With my back against the wall, there was only one way- through that Door.
A door I had known for years. A door I had memorized by heart. A door who was so faithful to my comings and goings...She never failed to open or close, totally at my bequest.
This time, it called on me and said "pull me open" and I did...
I can still feel the brass handle in my hands, copper colored, rusty and engraved by all of your fingerprints...
My hand hesitated a while before it gripped it. It rested there until I summoned the force to turn that knob and pulled that Door towards me...
It was very silent that morning. Yet I found myself tiptoeing in the empty house. As if not to wake anyone up. They were all absently asleep.
I checked each room and even arranged the covers of one of the beds. I made sure it was well stretched with no creases. A perfect empty bed...
The shutters were down, but not completely. I thought to myself, let the Light in. Maybe the Light will visit and knock on that door while am gone...
I walked towards my library, looked at my shelves and ran my fingers across the arranged piles as if running my fingers through a lover's hair...
I delicately stroked my paintings, infusing my palm with their colors. I then, clenched my fist, as if to capture and hold them there, right in the center of my palm.
I promised them that when we meet again, I will be intransigent with the dust and will never let it gather again...
I noticed a CD in the player. I left it there and left the cover empty, wide open, exposing the name of the songs and that of the singer.
On the small table there was a candle half burned down. The dripping, melted wax had frozen on the edges and looked like sour grapes hanging from a vine tree, dangling, reaching the dark mahogany wood and forming a cluster of white clouds...
Next to it was an empty cup of coffee...whose rim was stained with brown patches, like narrow paths, where the hot liquid had travelled...leaving at the bottom of the cup a thick dark opaque mud...
I left the cup sitting there. I left it with its dark rims and its dark remnants sitting next to the frozen white clouds...Clouds gathered from a small warm light, a small candle light that is now dead...
I pulled that handle, and caressed the Door, one final caress.
I stepped out in the blinding, glaring sun. I straddled towards the gate. I did not look back. I could not.
But I could not help but see the little palm tree that I had planted some time ago, wave my way and call my name out, as I walked out. As I walked out and away, towards the Unknown...
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