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Bundle of a Metaphor

December 23, 2014

Dear Mr. Real Estate Agent, 


Welcome to my humble abode.

I never want to leave it, even though inevitably, some day, I will have to.

It smells of the most peculiar fragrance, a mix of sweet spices and baked goods.

The build is solid, having withstood almost every fearful climate change/weather condition.

'Almost' because no matter what seeps through, there's always, not 'almost always,' a cozy and warm ambiance intact.

The roof is in excellent condition; I feel secure. Sometimes, it's almost like it breathes, the thumps of its heart soothing to the ear.

'Ha,' I laugh.

You blink twice with a blank stare, but if you hear the alarm beeping, no worries, it's as if the house is a horse, its wary ear always perked up, beckoning for 'peace' at once...

And peace is guaranteed to be restored.

I challenge you to try, with your  utmost experience, to put a price on this house because no real estate agent has succeeded yet.

"£260,000?" you ask.

I implore you to try again.

"£400,000?" you ask.

I'm on my knees begging you to try again.

"£1 million? 1 billion?"

I shake my head.

You wave an imaginary white flag.

How could you ever put a price on the home within my mother's arms?

Sorry Mr. Real Estate Agent, but you will find no business here, even after I have grown out of it.

P.S.  I am now in my mother's shoes and my little Amina and Maryam remind me every day how it once must have felt like to be in my mother's arms. Try hammering a 'For Sale' sign into them...I dare you.'

 

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