Note: Houses are homes to memories, they are milestones. The second we lost our grandfather and could no longer visit his house; our childhood had ended; we lost the very essence of our youth. Right now, we only have the memories. I will always miss our time together as children in the house we grew up in.

Trails of Little Ghosts’ Feet
For Maryam Saeed

Do you remember how dearly
we held that place?

Each and every inch held
a certain significance;
a memory, which we had
built, if not with our little hands
and little feet then with
our little minds.

We had built a castle of
joyous play.

We must’ve hidden
in almost every secluded space
and only we were able to devise
a nation under beds
and a kingdom
in wooden cupboards.

We would run across
a concrete land
chasing after a brown
feathered hen.

You and I,
surrounded by a partial desert,
standing palm trees disbursed
and horrid, binding weeds.  

The hen would then stop,
it would face us and   
with a devilish glance
run after us.

We would be screaming,
as the beast was out to
harm us and I was pricked
by its pointed beak
then yelped at the agony
of the piercing wound it inflicted.

                    *

Early mornings,
we would rise and creep
outside as everyone
was fast asleep.
It was hard to slumber,
when there was so much
world to see

and the sun would be
smiling bright,
the rooster strutting in
the yard and hens laying
their eggs.
The day was meant to start.

We would sneak out
into the streets,
taking strolls between each 
and every block,
the breeze would blow subtle
yet there would be
a loud and hopeful promise
for an even brighter tomorrow.

In times when our fears
would be greater than our dreams;
Lying on the bed beside grandma’s,
she would recite a little prayer,
to protect us from all
the dangers of the world.    

                    *

All the pieces of furniture,
the colored flooring,
the internal balcony…

and the hidden quarter where
the maids, who knew
more of our missions and mischief
stayed.
We’d run across the quarter
 then find our feet black and dirty.
We would hide and play
all around that house,

rather marking our presence,
than taking it
all in.

The last time
I had been to that place
it was to visit our grandfather,
who was very sick.

Within a few months,
he passed away.

Who would have thought
that someday
you and I would be looking
back.

Hoping the spirits
of our childhood still
lingers there. 

When Are We to Meet, Vincent?

“The sight of the stars always makes me dream in as simple a way as the black spots on the map, representing towns and villages, make me dream.

Why, I say to myself, should the spots of light in the firmament be less accessible to us than the black spots on the map of France.” – Vincent Van Gogh to his brother, Theo Van Gogh 

I spend nights awake
‘Til the breath of dawn’s
Light.
My favorite shade of night
Slowly vanishing from
The painted smooth
Paper-like canvas.

It is then, my ‘self’ draws
Away from living and rests
Into the notion of peace,
Into perhaps nothing.

                *

Years ago,
In the evenings where
I felt most alone,
My heart had found
A wonder of little specks-
Of little friends.

So, every
Hours-after sunset
I would sit beneath
A deep, dark sapphire
And little gems pinned
Onto the heavens,
Some close,

Some scattered.

I would gaze at the sky
And count the many of them,
And smile at the beaming ones
Watching over.  

                *

The world would finally
Sit still, quiet
And I would hear myself:
A throbbing sound from inside,
A gentle breeze and
Its whisper from tender,
Parted flesh;
A silent cry

That only the heavens
And people in the sky
Could hear.

How I wish I could caress
The little shimmering stars,
The friends I could not have
Here. 

Maryam A. Wajdi is a young Emirati poet and writer, with a bachelor’s degree in business management and a minor in English literature from the American University in Dubai. She specializes in poetry; her work “My Dear” and “Kiss” were previously published in Cinnamon Press’ poetry magazine, Envoi. Her poems are scattered pieces of herself; stories stemmed from other stories. Having played the violin from the age of 7, Wajdi is an admirer of all forms of art. She aspires to create imaginary realms that touch readers and inspire them to connect with their own deeply rooted, complex emotions.