The Archive of My Lungs

I wish I could move the memories, stored between my lungs, in an archive, filtered by subject: Faces Streets Smells Sounds Filtered by years, so the old never fades and the new safe. It is crowded inside. smells and sounds — makes the breath feel hard, and my tear easily spills from the corner of my eye. I wish I could find a place — in a tree, on a stone thrown into a river, or up on a cloud. A place to store episodes and pieces of what my body once felt and still resists to forget. When violence unfolds — when violence becomes the norm — when it finds its way into your safe haven, and carelessly, surrounds your home, The senses quickly take another job on — The eyes turn into cameras. The nose captures every smell. The hands reach for more than they have ever held. The mind starts rushing — randomly asking: Can a house be put in a plastic bag? Can my grandparents’ photo album fit in the backpack, along with the food, the pills, and my cat? Is there time to paint — the streetlights, the balconies, and the sky? Oh, I don’t know how to paint. and it is already too late. Can I record every good morning from the people passing by— the cousin, the neighbour, the friend and the stranger— or has death knocked on their doors before I could say my hellos? I am sick of snapshots of past times. I am tired of living with what I left behind. I am tired of fear — the death, I feel near— of the homes disfigured by bombs — Of the faces stalked by drones — Is there a place, where I can store my memories forever? I would call it: the archive of my lungs. So I could go back — And remember slowly One at a time. Not all of them — storming my body together.