Hill Street

There's a graveyard I pass by every day. It's on a hill on the way to my university. It's surrounded with houses from every side and fenced with low walls, big trees and butterflies.

I never noticed it until lately when I saw a group of people standing on its gate. And ever since then; I stare at the graves every time I pass by. It brings me peace in a way. But it's just for a second, and then I'm gone.

Birds, Trees and Wheelchairs

Some time ago, I worked at a center that some people call home. It had around 20 children and 20 old men and women.

I remember Mohammed, an 18 year old with special needs and hope. Mohammed could say two words: Alsalmu alekoo. He had curious eyes and at times he would stare at a picture on the wall next to him and smile. It had a garden and a house and a perfect sky - What everyone wants.

A 7-year-old autistic boy stood on the bed in front of him, looking mad everyday. He loved playing with Lego bricks and making faces. He would've jumped and ran around if he hadn't been tied to his bed for safety. He was energetic with an evil look. He was daring and outrageous.

On the bed next to the door of the room lay a 20 year old man. His arms weren't strong and his body was so small, but his eyes told every little detail. They were wide and gloomy. You could read his long years and walk with his past. He would barely smile. His mind was always miles away. Others would talk and yell while he just dreamt.

I dream too. I dream that someday Mohammed, Mostafa and Saeed would never be left. I dream that they'd be appreciated, loved for what they are and helped at home. I dream that someday they'd be given a chance to be not only great, but extraordinary.

Sometimes A Feeling Can't Be Said Anymore