They've wandered and prepared. They've looked ahead and waited. This city has grown empty and silent. They called it by its name. They knew it by its air. A home, it was crowded and filled once, it was home.
Months passed. Years followed. Seasons went and brought tears and loss. They kept hoping. It became a habit.
People said it'll pass. But they never really knew. They lied. The darkness that painted this street have turned into fog. The miles we used to travel are now separated and taken. Smoke and ashes and fire; it's not the same. Nothing is like it was.
I hear our house has gone to memory. It cuddled the air and lost pieces. We had a tree. We had a garden, a parking lot and a balcony. My grandpa _ a soldier and a father for ten children _ planted our garden. It took him years to watch our olive tree grow. He gave my uncles turns. Everyday one of them would water it, cut the dry leaves and collect olives.
Life was that simple some time ago. Before this became all we know.
Grandma still remembers everything about the day they had to leave. She says you never know you're losing all you have until you leave home. She remembers the people, the streets they walked. They were told they'll be leaving for sometime. They left it all. Holding on to a key.
It was temporary. Still is?
I'm dried up with memories. Planting flowers according to season. I water them, cut the dry leaves and collect them. I keep them with me. I keep them to remind me that someday this will pass. Someday, I'll be back.