I read in a book that when Chernobyl happened,
People were told to vacate their homes
But a son carried their family’s door.
That door bore their memories.
The wood was an imprint of their souls.
They felt it, they saw it, it was part of them.
So the son, against the warning,
With the door on his back
And severed memories of their beloved home
Behind him
Cut through the bushes.
O, I cried.
That door was radioactive:
Dangerous yet a beautiful tragedy
I would have done the same
To carry memories with me
To grab the door- knob that my great grandfather’s
fingerprints
Lie spread.
To feel its grains, its dents and curves and smell
it.
-
C) Salem Lorot/ echoesofthehills 2017
-
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