Thursday, August 07, 2014

I’m still not ready to leave

I’m still not ready to leave, but dare not say it to anyone. There are words behind my eyes still maturing, still not ripe for utterance. I have made a habit of keeping things to myself, but every now and again they weigh on me. Sadness is like that, it begs to be shared, to be spread like a cold. But I am resisting the decadent temptation, this once.

My throat is ready to leave; it is charred with exhaust. But something in me lingers, not wanting to pack just yet. More things to fold within: these congested streets, my backache, unwrapped endings, and the hesitation of what’s to come—I’ll have to pack them all. But I’ll have to unpack them first: lay them on the bed, fold them one by one—I don’t have much room.

But what to tell the dust coating everything and our lungs? What to tell the tired dust?

I shall return. Every now and then I breathe from a different nostril, and always gasp for air.

(Originally posted on April 14, 2007)


Russell Ragsdale said...

I saw from Katy you are back and wanted to wish you a hearty welcome. This piece you have posted is gorgeous with wishing to be delicate about indelicate things. Welcome back Ashraf!

tamie said... you wrestle with "home" and with sadness, my thoughts are with you...even though I'm just another blogger, on the other side of the country; your words have struck a resonance with me, as has your story.

arch.memory said...

Russell and Tamie, thank you for your comments! I wish I had more words to grapple with these thoughts, but I'm afraid my words are scarce these days...