Image default
Home » The Keys To My Home
Family Home

The Keys To My Home

I used to complain about my father’s repeated requests that I take my key with me every time I wanted to go out. “My handbag is very small,” was my favourite retort.

Martinak15 Creative Commons

We quarrelled every time I knocked on the door of my home. I didn’t see the necessity of carrying my keys. My mother used to stay at home most of the time. And even if she went out, I had no problem with hanging out on the Damascus streets.

Frankly, I did not like keys clinking in my already packed handbag and I preferred to squeeze in a small mirror instead.

When I left for Amman in early 2013, I discovered the keys in the small, hidden pocket of my handbag. “Did my father put them in without me noticing?” I wondered. Then, carelessly, I put them aside.

“There is no door for these keys now,” I told myself out loud.

After one week, I went out for the first time. When I came back, I started searching for the keys while I was still in the elevator. After a few seconds, I realised there was no need for searching. I did not use keys for this new door.

Nearly three years have passed since I moved to this new house. I keep carrying my Damascus keys, regardless of the size of my handbag.

The keys don’t annoy me anymore. On the contrary, I enjoy listening them clink. They remind me always that I have a home in Damascus waiting for me.

I look forward to using them again.

PS: Dear Dad, I assure you I am not going to annoy you again with my loud knocking. I have just realised what it means to have a key for a home in Damascus.

 

The key to my heart by Zylenia / CC BY 2.0
Other image: Martinak15 via Creative Commons

Related posts

Leave a Comment

* By using this form you agree with the storage and handling of your data by this website.

This website uses cookies to improve your experience. We'll assume you're ok with this, but you can opt-out if you wish. Accept Read More