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Weekly Contest #43
Standing at the threshold of our house, I trace the old rusted gate that you and I would swing on as children. The feel of its metal handles seems disturbingly familiar to my touch. The hinges scream, voicing my inner anguish, as I tug it open to our familial home, the place we grew up in; the place where we last existed as a family. A place I haven’t visited; neither in person nor in my mind, in the past thirteen years. At first, I gave our home a wary glance. I see the nameplate on the wall. It says ‘Zena Hadid’, in bold italic...
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