She
hauled
two cartons,
contents -
one hundred and
sixty four books,
three posters,
two paintings,
and one ceramic
owl;
three suitcases
of clothes,
a lifetime of
jewellery;
one pressure
cooker
(with two weights,
just-in-case),
three pots, one
pan and a spatula –
all non-stick, of
course.
Up
four flights of
demanding stairs,
(“it’s actually
only three and a half”
the broker had
promised).
Past the genial
uncle with trembling keys,
and a door that
wouldn’t cooperate
with his old hands;
around children,
who weave through
her legs,
caught in a tense
game of ‘cho-pohleec’.
Into
the
two-bed-two-bath-hall-kitchen.
Her laboured
breath mingles with the heat
that radiates
from the walls,
the floor, the ceiling.
The sunlight
throws a mango tinted spotlight
on the dust
that dances in on
the back of the hot summer breeze,
and she knows,
She is home.
