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Writer's pictureShamiso Christine Madzivire

Home...

She looked at the rubble around her. As if awakening from a daze she realised she had been standing in the destruction for weeks. But on this day it finally hit home.

HOME.

HOME was no more.

The building, which just a few short months before had been beautiful and warmly lit, an intimate space of light hearted laughter and shared dreams. Today it was nothing. Although she had lived in this reality for weeks, she reeled from the realisation that it was all lost. This place was no longer home.

It took on the body of a prison.

No physical walls in place and yet the world closed in around her.

She felt trapped.

She couldn't breathe.

She had to escape. And escape she did. Picking up a small object from the desolation, she smiled. A pained, half hearted smile. This was a reminder of what had been. Placing it in her pocket, she quickly fled.

Frantically running to escape the lost dreams, the memories, the pain.

She had made a person her home, and now was left to pick up the pieces of a broken future.

Finally getting somewhere safe, she sat on the soft grass and reached into her pocket. She pulled out the small object. There it was, her heart. Almost unrecognisable, crushed and bruised. Pieces missing. Pieces which undoubtedly had broken off in the destruction. But never the less it was here, she would fix it. But for now she placed it back in her pocket, unable and unwilling to begin the probing and the pain she new would come with the repair job.

She would just let it be, at least for a little while. Now, now was the time to be still. To be still and now that she was still firmly in the hands of the Father. The Father who was and always will be her first home.

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