so, take this key. we are leaving tomorrow.
they say: sell everything. they say: there is nothing
here for you anymore, nothing but death.
i am stubborn. they will not have this house.
i was born in this house, its enclosures were
my playground as a boy. here in this kitchen,
my wife lights the candles as my mother did;
as her mother did. i have my books. i have coins,
cloths. not much else. i hope this letter finds you well,
my brother. i hope this key is not too great a weight.
one day, when it's safe, come back and open
the courtyards to the light again. there will be
ample water in the aljibes. from the terraza,
night times, when it's quiet, you can hear
the birds on the Tajo, distant, not so distant,
calling to each other, among the voices,
whispers in the bedrooms, admonishments
for errant children, laughter in moments
of forgetfulness, hushed quickly as memory
rushes in unforgiving. So empty, these streets
now. Ysaac and Shoshana, gone already. Miriam
and Yuçaf. Avraham. Well. The boys talk
in huddled conferences, planning rebellion.
Useless. Better to live, no? It's not as though
we haven't done this before, our people.
Too often, perhaps. South, this time.
Morrocco? Ironic, back to Egypt?
as for me, well. they will not have this house.
i am stubborn. we are leaving tomorrow.
