We are all immigrants (are we not?), exiles from the source, from the land of the divine; common ancestry, shared lineage, birthed from the same homeland, womb-land.
Memories fade to yearning; some forget, believe this to be home, wander unanchored, unable to identify the wonder, the root, the sigh, the upward glance, the easing back-- mementos all of our Mother country stored in shoe boxes of memory.
Someday, we think, to return; and we shall; and we do.
"That door," she said, pointing to a door midway along the upstairs hallway, a door that hadn't existed before this morning, "That door," she repeated, "leads to realms yet undiscovered and unexplored." She paused and crossed her arms, "Not for you."
She saw me eyeing the door. "You are curious, yes?" she asked. "Intrigued?"
"Of course," I said. A door appears where none existed. Who wouldn't wonder?